11 


THE  LOVES  OF 


20NA 


MACMILLAN'S  STANDARD  LIBRARY 


THE    LOVES   OF   PELLEAS 
AND    ETARRE 


THE  LOVES  OF  PELLEAS 
AND  ETARRE 


BY 
ZONA  GALE 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 
-PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1907.    Reprinted 
December,  1907  ;  January,  August,  November,  1908;  April,  November, 
1909 ;  May,  August,  1910. 


Norfaoolr 

J.  8.  Cashing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


MY   FATHER   AND    MOTHER 


248988 


THE  author  hereby  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of 
the  publishers  of  Appletons  Magazine,  The  Cosmo 
politan  Magazine,  The  Delineator,  Everybody's  Maga 
zine,  The  Outlook,  The  Saturday  Evening  Post,  The 
Smart  Set,  and  The  Woman  s  Home  Companion,  in 
permitting  the  reprint  here  of  the  stories  that 
originally  appeared  in  their  pages. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  The  Odour  of  the  Ointment  I 

II.     The  Matinee 27 

III.  The  Path  of  In-the- Spring          .          .          .  45 

IV.  The  Elopement 72 

V.     The  Dance 93 

VI.     The  Honeymoon 115 

VII.     The  Other  Two 134 

VIII.      A  Fountain  of  Gardens 148 

IX.     The  Baby 171 

X.  The  Marriage  of  Katinka  .          .          .          .          .190 

XI.     The  Christening 208 

XII.     An  Interlude 229 

XIII.  The  Return  of  Endymion  ....  246 

XIV.  The  Golden  Wedding 265 

XV.     The  Wedding 291 

XVI.  "So  the  Carpenter  encouraged  the  Goldsmith"     .  312 

XVII.     Christmas  Roses 336 


The    Loves    of   Pelleas    and 
Etarre 

i 

THE   ODOUR  OF  THE   OINTMENT 

ASCENSION  lilies  were  everywhere  in  our  shabby 
drawing-room.  They  crowded  two  tables  and  filled 
a  corner  and  rose,  slim  and  white,  atop  a  Sheraton 
cabinet.  Every  one  had  sent  Pelleas  and  me  a  sheaf 
of  the  flowers  —  the  Chartres,  the  Cleatams,  Miss 
Willie  Lillieblade,  Enid,  Lisa  and  dear  Hobart  Eddy 
had  all  remembered  us  on  Easter  eve,  and  we  en 
tered  our  drawing-room  after  breakfast  on  Easter 
morning  to  be  all  but  greeted  with  a  winding  of  the 
white  trumpets.  The  sun  smote  them  and  they 
were  a  kind  of  candle,  their  light  secretly  diffused, 
premonitory  of  Spring,  of  some  resurrection  of  light 
as  a  new  element.  It  was  a  wonderful  Easter  day, 
and  in  spite  of  our  sad  gray  hair  Pelleas  and  I  were 
never  in  fairer  health;  yet  for  the  first  time  in  our 
fifty  years  together  Easter  found  us  close  prisoners. 


2  :    ,  •  £dYES  .  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

Easter  morning,  and  we  were  forbidden  to  leave  the 
house ! 

"Etarre,"  Pelleas  said,  with  some  show  of  firm 
ness,  "there  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  we  should 
not  go." 

"Ah,  well  now,"  I  said  with  a  sigh,  "I  wish  you 
could  prove  that  to  Nichola.  Do  I  not  know  it 
perfectly  already?" 

It  is  one  sign  of  our  advancing  years,  we  must 
suppose,  that  we  are  prone  to  predicate  of  each  other 
the  trifles  which  heaven  sends.  The  sterner  things 
we  long  ago  learned  to  accept  with  our  hands  clasped 
in  each  other's;  but  when  the  postman  is  late  or  the 
hot  water  is  cold  or  we  miss  our  paper  we  have  a 
way  of  looking  solemnly  sidewise. 

We  had  gone  upstairs  the  night  before  in  the  best 
of  humours,  Pelleas  carrying  an  Ascension  lily  to 
stand  in  the  moonlight  of  our  window,  for  it  always 
seems  to  us  the  saddest  injustice  to  set  the  sullen 
extinguisher  of  lowered  lights  on  the  brief  life  of  a 
flower.  And  we  had  been  looking  forward  happily 
to  Easter  morning  when  the  service  is  always  insepa 
rable  from  a  festival  of  Spring.  Then,  lo  !  when  we 
were  awakened  there  was  the  treacherous  world  one 
glitter  of  ice.  Branches  sparkled  against  the  blue, 
the  wall  of  the  park  was  a  rampart  of  silver  and  the 
faithless  sidewalks  were  mockeries  of  thoroughfare. 
But  the  grave  significance  of  this  did  not  come  to  us 


THE  ODOUR   OF  THE  OINTMENT  3 

until  Nichola  entered  the  dining- room  with  the  griddle- 
cakes  and  found  me  dressed  in  my  gray  silk  and 
Pelleas  in  broadcloth. 

"Is  it,"  asked  our  old  serving-woman,  who  rules 
us  as  if  she  had  brought  us  from  Italy  and  we  had 
not,  more  than  forty  years  before,  tempted  her  from 
her  native  Capri,  "is  it  that  you  are  mad,  with  this 
ice  everywhere,  everywhere  ? " 

"It  is  Easter  morning,  Nichola,"  I  said,  with  the 
mildness  of  one  who  supports  a  perfect  cause. 

"Our  Lady  knows  it  is  so,"  Nichola  said,  setting 
down  her  smoking  burden,  "but  the  streets  are  so 
thick  with  ice  that  one  breaks  one's  head  a  thousand 
times.  You  must  not  think  of  so  much  as  stepping 
in  the  ar-y." 

She  left  the  room,  and  the  honey-brown  cakes 
cooled  while  Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other  aghast. 
To  miss  our  Easter  service  for  the  first  time  in  our 
life  together !  The  thought  was  hardly  to  be  borne. 
We  reasoned  with  Nichola  when  she  came  back  and 
I  think  that  Pelleas  even  stamped  his  foot  under  the 
table;  but  she  only  brought  more  cakes  and  shook 
her  head,  the  impertinent  old  woman  who  has  con 
ceived  that  she  must  take  care  of  us. 

"One  breaks  one's  head  a  thousand  times,"  she 
obstinately  repeated.  "Our  Lady  would  not  wish 
it.  Danger  is  not  holy." 

To  tell  the  truth,  as  Pelleas  and  I  looked  sorrow- 


4      LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

fully  from  the  window  above  the  Ascension  lilies  we 
knew  that  there  was  reason  in  the  situation,  for  the 
streets  were  perilous  even  to  see.  None  the  less  we 
were  frankly  resentful,  for  it  is  bad  enough  to  have 
a  disagreeable  matter  occur  without  having  reason 
on  its  side.  As  for  our  carriage,  that  went  long  ago 
together  with  the  days  when  Pelleas  could  model  and 
I  could  write  so  that  a  few  were  deceived;  and  as 
for  a  cab  to  our  far  downtown  church  and  back,  that 
was  not  to  be  considered.  For  several  years  now 
we  have  stepped,  as  Nichola  would  say,  softly,  softly 
from  one  security  to  another  so  that  we  need  not 
give  up  our  house;  and  even  now  we  are  seldom  sure 
that  one  month's  comfort  will  keep  its  troth  with  the 
next.  Since  it  was  too  icy  to  walk  to  the  car  we 
must  needs  remain  where  we  were. 

"I  suppose,"  said  I,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  opin 
ion,  "that  it  is  really  Easter  uptown  too.  But  some 
way  — " 

"I  know,"  Pelleas  said.  Really,  of  all  the  pleas 
ures  of  this  world  I  think  that  the  "I  know"  of  Pel- 
leas  in  answer  to  something  I  have  left  unsaid  is  the 
last  to  be  foregone.  I  hope  that  there  is  no  one  who 
does  not  have  this  delight. 

"Pelleas — "  I  began  tremblingly  to  suggest. 

"Ah,  well  now,"  Pelleas  cried,  resolutely,* "let  us 
go  anyway.  We  can  walk  beside  the  curb  slowly. 
And  after  all,  we  do  not  belong  to  Nichola."  Really, 


THE   ODOUR   OF   THE   OINTMENT  5 

of  all  the  pleasures  of  this  world  I  think  that  the 
daring  of  Pelleas  in  moments  when  I  am  cowardly 
is  quite  the  last  to  be  renounced.  I  hope  that  there 
is  no  one  who  has  not  the  delight  of  living  near  some 
one  a  bit  braver  than  himself. 

With  one  accord  we  slipped  from  the  drawing- 
room  and  toiled  up  the  stairs.  I  think,  although  we 
would  not  for  the  world  have  said  so,  that  there  may 
have  been  in  our  minds  the  fear  that  this  might  be 
our  last  Easter  together  and,  if  it  was  to  be  so,  then 
to  run  away  to  Easter  service  would  be  a  fitting  mem 
ory,  a  little  delicious  human  thing  to  recall  among 
austerer  glories.  Out  of  its  box  in  a  twinkling  came 
my  violet  bonnet  and  I  hardly  looked  in  a  mirror  as 
I  put  it  on.  I  fastened  my  cloak  wrong  from  top 
to  bottom  and  seized  two  right-hand  gloves  and 
thrust  them  in  my  muff.  Then  we  opened  the  door 
and  listened.  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  house. 
We  ventured  into  the  passage  and  down  the  stairs, 
and  I  think  we  did  not  breathe  until  the  outer  door 
closed  softly  upon  us.  For  Nichola,  we  have  come 
to  believe,  is  a  mystic  and  thinks  other  people's 
thoughts.  At  all  events,  she  finds  us  out  so  often 
that  we  prefer  to  theorize  that  it  is  her  penetration 
and  not,  our  clumsiness  which  betrays  us. 

Nichola  had  already  swept  the  steps  with  hot  water 
and  salt  and  ashes  and  sawdust  combined;  Nichola 
is  so  thorough  that  I  am  astonished  she  has  not 


6      LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

corrupted  me  with  the  quality.  Yet  no  sooner  was 
I  beyond  the  pale  of  her  friendly  care  than  I  over 
estimated  thoroughness,  like  the  weak  character  that 
I  am,  and  wished  that  the  whole  street  had  practiced 
it.  I  took  three  steps  on  that  icy  surface  and  stood 
still,  desperately. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  weakly,  "I  feel  —  I  feel  like  a 
little  nut  on  top  of  a  big,  frosted,  indigestible  cake." 

I  laughed  a  bit  hysterically  and  Pelleas  slipped 
my  arm  more  firmly  in  his  and  we  crept  forward 
like  the  hands  of  a  clock,  Pelleas  a  little  the  faster,  as 
became  the  tall  minute  hand.  We  turned  the 
corner  safely  and  had  one  interminable  block  to 
traverse  before  we  reached  the  haven  of  the  car.  I 
looked  down  that  long  expanse  of  slippery  gray, 
unbroken  save  where  a  divine  janitor  or  two  had 
interposed,  and  my  courage  failed  me.  And  Pelleas 
rashly  ventured  on  advice. 

"You  walk  too  stiffly,  Etarre,"  he  explained. 
"Relax,  relax!  Step  along  slowly  but  easily,  as  I 
do.  Then,  if  you  fall,  you  fall  like  a  child  —  no 
jar,  no  shock,  no  broken  bones.  Now  relax  — " 

And  Pelleas  did  so.  Before  I  could  shape  my 
answer  Pelleas  had  relaxed.  He  lay  in  a  limp  little 
heap  on  the  ice  beside  me,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
my  moment  of  despair. 

I  do  not  know  where  she  came  from,  but  while  I 
stood  there  hopelessly  reiterating,  "Pelleas — why, 


THE  ODOUR   OF  THE   OINTMENT  7 

Pelleas!"  on  the  verge  of  tears,  she  stepped  from 
some  door  of  the  air  to  my  assistance.  She  wore  a 
little  crimson  hat  and  a  crimson  collar,  but  her  poor 
coat,  I  afterward  noted,  was  sadly  worn.  At  the 
moment  of  her  coming  it  was  her  clear,  pale  face  that 
fixed  itself  in  my  grateful  memory.  She  darted 
forward,  stepped  down  from  the  curb  and  held  out 
two  hands  to  Pelleas. 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  "I  can  help  you.  I  have  on 
rubber  boots." 

Surely  no  interfering  goddess  ever  arrived  in  a 
more  practical  frame  of  mind. 

When  Pelleas  was  on  his  feet,  looking  about 
him  in  a  dazed  and  rather  unforgiving  fashion, 
the  little  maid  caught  off  her  crimson  muffler  and 
brushed  his  coat.  Pelleas,  with  bared  head,  made 
her  as  courtly  a  bow  as  his  foothold  permitted,  and 
she  continued  to  stand  somewhat  shyly  before  us 
with  the  prettiest  anxiety  on  her  face,  shaking  the 
snow  from  her  crimson  muffler. 

"You  are  not  hurt,  sir?"  she  asked,  and  seemed 
so  vastly  relieved  at  his  reassurance  that  she  quite 
won  our  hearts.  "Now,"  she  said,  "won't  you  let 
me  walk  with  you  ?  My  rubber  boots  will  do  for 
all  three." 

We  each  accepted  her  arm  without  the  smallest 
protest.  I  will  hazard  that  no  shipwrecked  sailor 
ever  inquired  of  the  rescuing  sail  whether  he  was 


8      LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

inconveniencing  it.  Once  safely  aboard,  however, 
and  well  under  way,  he  may  have  symbolized  his 
breeding  to  the  extent  of  offering  a  faint,  polite 
resistance. 

As  "Shall  we  not  be  putting  you  out?"  Pelleas 
inquired,  never  offering  to  release  her  arm. 

And  "I'm  afraid  we  are,"  I  ventured,  pressing  to 
her  all  the  closer.  She  was  frail  as  I,  too,  and  it 
was  not  the  rubber  boots  to  which  I  pinned  my  faith ; 
she  was  young,  and  you  can  hardly  know  what  safety 
that  bespeaks  until  you  are  seventy,  on  ice. 

"  It's  just  there,  on  the  south  corner  of  the  avenue," 
Pelleas  explained  apologetically,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  perceived  that  by  common  consent  we  had 
turned  back  toward  home.  But  neither  of  us  men 
tioned  that. 

Then,  as  we  stepped  forward,  with  beautiful 
nicety  rounding  the  corner  to  come  upon  our  en 
trance,  suddenly,  without  a  moment's  warning,  our 
blackest  fears  were  fulfilled.  We  ran  full  upon 
Nichola. 

"Ah,  I  told  you,  Pelleas!"  I  murmured;  which 
I  had  not,  but  one  has  to  take  some  comfort  in  crises. 

Without  a  word  Nichola  wheeled  solemnly,  grasped 
my  other  arm  and  made  herself  fourth  in  our  singular 
party.  Her  gray  head  was  unprotected  and  her  hair 
stood  out  all  about  it.  She  had  thrown  her  apron 
across  her  shoulders  and  great  patches  in  her  print 


THE   ODOUR   OF  THE   OINTMENT  9 

gown  were  visible  to  all  the  world.  When  Nichola's 
sleeves  wear  out  she  always  cuts  a  piece  from  the 
front  breadth  of  her  skirt  to  mend  them,  trusting  to 
her  aprons  to  conceal  the  lack.  She  was  a  sorry 
old  figure  indeed,  out  there  on  the  avenue  in  the 
Easter  sunshine,  and  I  inclined  bitterly  to  resent  her 
interference. 

"Nichola,"  said  I,  haughtily,  "one  would  think 
that  we  were  obliged  to  be  wheeled  about  on  casters." 

Nichola  made  but  brief  reply. 

"Our  Lady  knows  you'd  be  better  so,"  she  said. 

So  that  was  how,  on  Easter  morning,  with  the  bells 
pealing  like  a  softer  silver  across  the  silver  of  the 
city,  Pelleas  and  I  found  ourselves  back  in  our  lonely 
drawing-room  considerably  shaken  and  hovering 
before  the  fire  which  Nichola  stirred  to  a  leaping 
blaze.  And  with  us,  since  we  had  insisted  on  her 
coming,  was  our  new  little  friend,  fluttering  about 
us  with  the  prettiest  concern,  taking  away  my  cloak, 
untying  my  bonnet  and  wheeling  an  arm-chair  for 
Pelleas,  quite  as  if  she  were  the  responsible  little 
hostess  and  we  her  upset  guests.  Presently,  the 
bright  hat  and  worn  coat  laid  aside,  she  sat  on  a  has 
sock  before  the  blaze  and  looked  up  at  us,  like  a  little 
finch  that  had  alighted  at  our  casement  and  had  been 
coaxed  within.  I  think  that  I  love  best  these  little 
bird-women  whom  one  expects  at  any  moment  to 
hear  thrilling  with  a  lilt  of  unreasonable  song. 


io  LOVES   OF  PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  on  a  sudden,  "how  selfish 
of  us.  I  dare  say  you  will  have  been  going  to 
church?" 

She  hesitated  briefly. 

"I  might  'a*  gone  to  the  mission,"  she  explained, 
unaccountably  colouring,  "but  I  don't  know  if  I 
would.  On  Easter." 

"But  I  should  have  thought,"  I  cried,  "that  this 
is  the  day  of  days  to  go." 

"It  would  be,"  she  assented,  "it  would  be — " 
she  went  on,  hesitating,  "but,  ma'am,  I  can't  bear 
to  go,"  she  burst  out,  "because  they  don't  have  no 
flowers.  We  go  to  the  mission,"  she  added,  "and 
not  to  the  grand  churches.  And  it  seems  —  it 
seems  —  don't  you  think  God  must  be  where  the 
most  flowers  are  ?  An'  last  Easter  we  only  had  one 
geranium." 

Bless  the  child.  I  must  be  a  kind  of  pagan,  for 
I  understood. 

"Your  flowers  are  beau-tiful,"  she  said,  shyly,  with 
a  breath  of  content.  "Are  they  real?  I've  been 
wantin'  to  ask  you.  I  never  saw  so  many  without 
the  glass  in  front.  But  they  don't  smell  much,"  she 
added,  wistfully;  "I  wonder  why  that  is  ?" 

Pelleas  and  I  had  been  wondering  that  very  morn 
ing.  They  looked  so  sweet-scented  and  yet  were 
barren  of  fragrance;  and  we  had  told  ourselves 
that  perhaps  they  were  lilies  of  symbol  without 


THE  ODOUR  OF  THE  OINTMENT  11 

mission  or  message  beyond  the  symbol,  without  hue 
or  passion  or,  so  to  say,  experience. 

"Perhaps  if  one  were  to  make  some  one  happy 
with  them  or  to  put  them  in  a  bride's  bouquet  they 
would  no  longer  be  scentless,"  Pelleas  quaintly  said. 

But  now  my  mind  was  busy  with  other  problems 
than  those  of  such  fragrance. 

"Where  do  you  go  to  church,  my  dear  ?"  I  asked, 
not  daring  to  glance  at  Pelleas. 

"To  the  mission,"  she  said,  "over — "  and  she 
named  one  of  the  poorest  of  the  struggling  East  Side 
chapels.  "It's  just  started,"  she  explained,  "an* 
the  lady  that  give  most,  she  died,  and  the  money 
don't  come.  And  poor  Mr.  Lovelow,  he's  the 
minister  and  he's  sick  —  but  he  preaches,  anyhow. 
And  pretty  near  nobody  comes  to  hear  him,"  she 
added,  with  a  curious,  half-defiant  emotion,  her 
cheeks  still  glowing.  It  was  strange  that  I  who  am 
such  a  busybody  of  romance  was  so  slow  to  com 
prehend  that  betraying  colour. 

Pelleas  and  I  knew  where  the  mission  was.  We 
had  even  peeped  into  it  one  Sunday  when,  though  it 
was  not  quite  finished,  they  were  trying  to  hold  ser 
vice  from  the  unpainted  pulpit.  I  remembered  the 
ugly  walls  covered  with  the  lead-pencil  calculations 
of  the  builders,  the  forlorn  reed  organ,  the  pushing 
feet  upon  the  floor.  And  now  "the  lady  who  give 
most"  had  died. 


iz  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

"Last  Easter,"  our  little  friend  was  reiterating, 
"we  had  one  geranium  that  the  minister  brought. 
But  now  his  mother  is  dead  and  I  guess  he  won't  be 
keeping  plants.  Men  always  lets  'em  freeze.  Mis' 
Sledge,  she's  got  a  cactus,  but  it  hasn't  bloomed  yet. 
Maybe  she'll  take  that.  And  they  said  they  was 
going  to  hang  up  the  letters  left  from  last  Christ 
mas,  for  the  green.  They  don't  say  nothing  but 
'Welcome'  and  'Star  of  Bethlehem,'  but  I  s'pose 
the  'Welcome'  is  always  nice  for  a  church,  and  I 
s'pose  the  star  shines  all  year  round,  if  you  look. 
But  they  don't  much  of  anybody  come.  Mr.  Love- 
low,  he's  too  sick  to  visit  round  much.  Last  Sunday 
they  was  only  'leven  in  the  whole  room." 

"Only  'leven  in  the  whole  room."  It  hardly 
seemed  credible  in  New  York.  But  I  knew  the  pov 
erty  of  some  of  the  smaller  missions,  especially  in  a 
case  where  "the  lady  that  give  most"  has  died.  And 
this  poor  young  minister,  this  young  Mr.  Lovelow 
whose  mother  had  died  and  who  was  too  sick  to 
"visit  round  much,"  and  doubtless  had  an  indifferent, 
poverty-ridden  parish  which  no  other  pastor 
wanted  —  I  knew  in  an  instant  the  whole  story  of 
the  struggle.  I  looked  over  at  our  pots  of  Ascension 
lilies  and  I  found  myself  unreasonably  angry  with 
the  dear  Cleatams  and  Chartres  and  Hobart  Eddy 
and  the  rest  for  the  self-indulgence  of  having  given 
them  to  us. 


THE  ODOUR  OF   THE   OINTMENT  13 

At  that  moment  my  eyes  met  those  of  Pelleas.  He 
was  leaning  forward,  looking  at  me  with  an  expression 
of  both  daring,  and  doubt  of  my  approval,  and  I 
saw  his  eyes  go  swiftly  to  the  lilies.  What  was  he 
contriving,  I  wondered,  my  heart  beating.  He  was 
surely  not  thinking  of  sending  our  lilies  over  to  the 
mission,  for  we  could  never  get  them  all  there  in 
time  and  Nichola  — 

"Etarre!"  said  Pelleas  —  and  showed  me  in  a 
moment  heights  of  resourcefulness  to  which  I  can 
never  attain  —  "  Etarre  !  It  is  only  half  after  ten. 
We  can't  go  out  to  service  —  and  the  mission  is  not 
four  blocks  from  us.  Why  not  have  our  little  friend 
run  over  there  and,  if  there  are  only  two  dozen  or  so 
in  the  chapel,  have  that  young  Mr.  Lovelow  bring 
them  all  over  here,  and  let  it  be  Easter  in  this  room  ?" 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  lilies  waiting  there 
all  about  the  walls  and  doing  no  good  to  any  save 
a  selfish  old  man  and  woman.  He  looked  at  me, 
almost  abashed  at  his  own  impulse.  Was  ever 
such  a  practical  Mahomet,  proposing  to  bring  to 
himself  some  Mountain  Delectable  ? 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  asked  breathlessly,  "to  let 
them  have  services  in  this  — " 

"Here  with  us,  in  the  drawing-room,"  Pelleas 
explained.  "Why  not?  There  were  fifty  in  the 
room  for  that  Lenten  morning  musicale.  There's 
the  piano  for  the  music.  And  the  lilies — the  lilies — " 


14  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

"Of  course  we  will/'  I  cried.  "But,  O,  will 
they  come  ?  Do  you  think  they  will  come  ?" 

I  turned  to  our  little  friend,  and  she  had  risen  and 
was  waiting  with  shining  eyes. 

"O,  ma'am,"  she  said,  .trembling,  "why,  ma'am! 
O,  yes'm,  they'll  come.  I'll  get  'em  here  myself. 
O,  Mr.  Lovelow,  he'll  be  so  glad  .  .  ." 

She  flew  to  her  bright  hat  and  worn  coat  and 
crimson  muffler. 

"Mr.  Lovelow  says,"  she  cried,  "that  a  shabby 
church  is  just  as  much  a  holy  temple  as  the  ark  of 
the  gover'ment  —  but  he  was  so  glad  when  we  dyed 
the  spread  for  the  orgin  —  O,  ma'am,"  she  broke 
off,  knotting  the  crimson  scarf  about  her  throat, 
"do  you  really  want  'em  ?  They  ain't  — you  know 
they  don't  look  — " 

"Hurry,  child,"  said  Pelleas,  "and  mind  you 
don't  let  one  of  them  escape!" 

When  she  was  gone  we  looked  at  each  other  in 
panic. 

"Pelleas,"  I  cried,  trembling,  "think  of  all  there 
is  to  be  done  in  ten  minutes." 

Pelleas  brushed  this  aside  as  a  mere  straw  in  the 
wind. 

"Think  of  Nichola,"  he  portentously  amended. 

In  all  our  flurry  we  could  not  help  laughing  at  the 
frenzy  of  our  old  servant  when  we  told  her.  Old 
Nichola  was  born  upon  the  other  side  of  every  ar- 


THE  ODOUR  OF   THE  OINTMENT  15 

gument.  In  her  we  can  see  the  history  of  all  the 
world  working  out  in  a  miniature  of  wrinkles.  For 
Nichola  would  have  cut  off  her  gray  hair  with  Sparta, 
hurled  herself  fanatically  abroad  on  St.  Bartholo 
mew's  day,  borne  a  pike  before  the  Bastile,  broken 
and  burned  the  first  threshing-machine  in  England, 
stoned  Luther,  and  helped  to  sew  the  stars  upon 
striped  cloth  in  the  kitchen  of  Betsy  Ross. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,"  cried  Nichola,  "church 
in  the  best  room !  It  is  not  holy.  Whoever  heard 
o*  church  in  a  private  house,  like  a  spiritualist  see- 
once  or  whatever  they  are.  An'  me  with  a  sponge 
cake  in  the  oven,"  she  concluded  fervently.  "Heaven 
be  helpful,  mem,  I  wish't  you'd  'a'  went  to  church 
yourselves." 

Chairs  were  drawn  from  the  library  and  dining- 
room  and  from  above-stairs,  and  frantically  dusted 
with  Nichola's  apron.  The  lilies  were  turned  from 
the  windows  to  look  inward  on  the  room  and  a 
little  table  for  the  Bible  was  laid  with  a  white  cloth 
and  set  with  a  vase  of  lilies.  And  in  spite  of  Nichola, 
who  every  moment  scolded  and  prophesied  and 
nodded  her  head  in  the  certainty  that  all  the  thunders 
of  the  church  would  descend  upon  us,  we  were  ready 
when  the  door-bell  rang.  I  peeped  from  the  drawing- 
room  window  and  saw  that  our  steps  were  filled  ! 

"Nichola,"  said  I,  trembling,  "you  will  come  up 
to  the  service,  will  you  not  ? " 


16  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

Nichola  shook  her  old  gray  head. 

"It's  a  nonsense,"  she  shrilly  proclaimed.  "It 
will  not  be  civilized.  It  will  not  be  religious.  I'll 
open  the  door  on  'em,  but  I  won't  do  nothink  elst, 


mem." 


When  we  heard  their  garments  in  the  hall  and  the 
voice  of  Little  Friend,  Pelleas  pushed  back  the 
curtains  and  there  was  our  Easter,  come  to  us  upon 
the  threshold. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  fragile,  gentle  figure 
who  led  them.  The  Reverend  Stephen  Lovelow 
came  in  with  outstretched  hand,  and  I  have  forgotten 
what  he  said  or  indeed  whether  he  spoke  at  all. 
But  he  took  our  hands  and  greeted  us  as  the  disciple 
must  have  greeted  the  host  of  that  House  of  the  Upper 
Room.  We  led  the  way  to  the  table  where  he  laid 
his  worn  Bible  and  he  stood  in  silence  while  the 
others  found  their  places,  marshaled  briskly  by 
Little  Friend  who  as  captain  was  no  less  efficient 
than  as  deliverer.  There  were  chairs  to  spare,  and 
when  every  one  was  seated,  in  perfect  quiet,  the  young 
clergyman  bowed  his  head :  — 

"Lord,  thou  hast  made  thy  face  to  shine  upon 
us  — "  he  prayed,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  our 
shabby  drawing-room  was  suddenly  quick  with  a 
presence  more  intimate  than  that  of  the  lilies. 

When  the  hymn  was  given  out  and  there  was  a 
fluttering  of  leaves  of  the  hymn-books  they  had 


THE  ODOUR   OF  THE   OINTMENT  17 

brought,  five  of  our  guests  at  a  nod  from  Mr.  Lovelow 
made  their  way  forward.  One  was  a  young  woman 
with  a  ruddy  face,  but  ruddy  with  that  strange, 
wrinkled  ruddiness  of  age  rather  than  youth,  who 
wore  a  huge  felt  hat  laden  with  flaming  roses  evi 
dently  added  expressly  for  Easter  day.  She  had  on 
a  thin  waist  of  flimsy  pink  with  a  collar  of  beads  and 
silver  braid,  and  there  were  stones  of  all  colours  in  a 
half-dozen  rings  on  her  hands.  She  took  her  place 
at  the  piano  with  an  ease  almost  defiant  and  she 
played  the  hymn  not  badly,  I  must  admit,  and 
sang  in  a  full  riotous  soprano.  Meanwhile,  at  her 
side  was  ranged  the  choir.  There  were  four  —  a 
great  watch-dog  of  a  bass  with  swelling  veins  upon 
his  forehead  and  erect  reddish  hair;  a  little  round 
contralto  in  a  plush  cap  and  a  dress  trimmed  with 
the  appliqued  flowers  cut  from  a  lace  curtain;  a 
tall,  shy  soprano  who  looked  from  one  to  another 
through  the  hymn  as  if  she  were  in  personal  exhor 
tation;  and  a  pleasant-faced  tenor  who  sang  with  a 
will  that  was  good  to  hear  and  was  evidently  the 
choir  leader,  for  he  beat  time  with  a  stumpy,  cracked 
hand  set  with  a  huge  black  ring  on  its  middle  finger. 
The  little  woman  next  me  offered  her  book  and  I  had 
a  glimpse  of  a  pinched  side-face,  with  a  displaced 
strand  of  gray  hair  and  a  loose  linen  collar  with  no 
cravat,  but  I  have  seldom  heard  a  sweeter  voice  than 
that  which  up-trembled  beside  me  —  although,  poor 


i8  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

little  woman !  she  was  sadly  ill  at  ease  because  the 
thumb  which  rested  on  the  book  next  me  was  thrust 
in  a  glove  fully  an  inch  too  long.  As  for  Pelleas,  he 
was  sharing  a  book  with  a  youngish  man,  stooped, 
long-armed,  with  a  mane  of  black  hair,  whom  Mr. 
Lovelow  afterward  told  me  had  lost  his  position  in 
a  sweat-shop  through  drawing  some  excellent  car 
toons  on  the  box  of  his  machine.  Mr.  Lovelow 
himself  was  "looking  over"  with  a  mother  and 
daughter  who  were  later  presented  to  us,  and  who 
embarrassed  any  listener  by  persistently  talking  in 
concert,  each  repeating  a  few  words  of  what  the  other 
had  just  said,  quite  in  the  fashion  of  the  most  gently 
bred  talkers  bent  upon  assuring  each  other  of  their 
spontaneous  sympathy  and  response. 

And  what  a  hymn  it  was !  After  the  first  stanza 
they  gained  in  confidence,  and  a  volume  of  sound 
filled  the  low  room  —  ay,  and  a  world  of  spirit,  too. 
"  Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day,  Hallelu — jah  !  .  .  ." 
they  caroled,  and  Pelleas,  who  never  can  sing  a  tune 
aloud  although  he  declares  indignantly  that  in  his 
head  he  keeps  it  perfectly,  and  I,  who  do  not  sing  at 
all,  both  joined  perforce  in  the  triumphant  chorus. 
Ah,  I  dare  say  that  farther  down  the  avenue  were 
sweet-voiced  choirs  that  sang  music  long  rehearsed, 
golden,  flowing,  and  yet  I  think  there  was  no  more 
fervent  Easter  music  than  that  in  which  we  joined. 
It  was  as  if  the  other  music  were  the  censer-smoke, 


THE  ODOUR  OF  THE  OINTMENT  19 

and  we  were  its  shadow  on  the  ground,  but  a 
proof  of  the  sun  for  all  that. 

I  cannot  now  remember  all  that  simple  service, 
perhaps  because  I  so  well  remember  the  glory  of  the 
hour.  I  sat  where  I  could  see  the  park  stretching 
away,  black  upon  silver  and  silver  upon  black,  over 
the  Ascension  lilies.  The  face  of  the  young  minister 
was  illumined  as  he  read  and  talked  to  his  people.  I 
think  that  I  have  never  known  such  gentleness,  never 
such  yearning  and  tenderness  as  were  his  with  that 
handful  of  crude  and  careless  and  devout.  And 
though  he  spoke  passionately  and  convincingly  I 
could  not  but  think  that  he  was  like  some  dumb 
thing  striving  for  the  utterance  of  the  secret  fire 
within  —  striving  to  "burn  aloud,"  as  a  violin  be 
seeches  understanding.  Perhaps  there  is  no  other 
way  to  tell  the  story  of  that  first  day  of  the  week  — 
"early,  when  it  was  yet  dark." 

"They  had  brought  sweet  spices,"  he  said,  "with 
which  to  anoint  Him.  Where  are  the  spices  that 
we  have  brought  to-day  ?  Have  we  aught  of  sac 
rifice,  of  charity,  of  zeal,  of  adoration  —  let  us  lay 
them  at  His  feet,  an  offering  acceptable  unto  the  Lord, 
a  token  of  our  presence  at  the  door  of  the  sepulcher 
from  which  the  stone  was  rolled  away.  Where  are 
the  sweet  spices  of  our  hands,  where  the  pound  of 
ointment  of  spikenard  wherewith  we  shall  anoint  the 
feet  of  our  living  Lord  ?  For  if  we  bring  of  our 


20     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

spiritual  possession,  the  Christ  will  suffer  us,  even 
as  He  suffered  Mary;  and  the  house  shall  be  filled 
with  the  odour  of  the  ointment." 

"And  the  house  shall  be  filled  with  the  odour  of 
the  ointment,"  I  said  over  to  myself.  Is  it  not 
strange  how  a  phrase,  a  vista,  a  bar  of  song,  a  thought 
beneath  the  open  stars,  will  almost  pierce  the  veil  ? 

"And  the  house  shall  be  filled  with  the  odour  of 
the  ointment,"  I  said  silently  all  through  the  last 
prayer  and  the  last  hymn  and  the  benediction  of 
"The  Lord  make  his  face  to  shine  upon  you,  the 
Lord  give  you  peace."  And  some  way,  with  our 
rising,  the  abashment  which  is  an  integral  part  of 
all  such  gatherings  as  we  had  convoked  was  not  to 
be  reckoned  with,  and  straightway  the  presentations 
and  the  words  of  gratitude  and  even  the  pretty  anx 
iety  of  Little  Friend  fluttering  among  us  were  spon 
taneous  and  unconstrained.  It  was  quite  as  if, 
Pelleas  said  afterward,  we  had  been  reduced  to  a 
common  denominator.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  in 
remembering  the  day  as  if  half  the  principles  of 
Christian  sociology  were  illustrated  there  in  our 
shabby  drawing-room;  but  for  that  matter  I  would 
like  to  ask  what  complexities  of  political  science, 
what  profound  bases  of  solidarity  are  not  on 
the  way  to  be  solved  in  the  presence  of  Easter 
lilies  ?  I  am  in  all  these  matters  most  stupid 
and  simple,  but  at  all  events  I  am  not  blameful 


THE  ODOUR  OF  THE  OINTMENT  21 

enough  to  believe  that  they  are  exhausted  by  the 
theories. 

Every  one  lingered  for  a  little,  in  proof  of  the  suc 
cess  of  our  venture.  Pelleas  and  I  talked  with  the 
choir  and  with  the  pianiste,  and  this  lady  informed 
us  that  our  old  rosewood  piano,  which  we  apologeti 
cally  explained  to  have  been  ours  for  fifty  years, 
was  every  bit  as  good  and  every  bit  as  loud  as  a  new 
golden-oak  "instrument"  belonging  to  her  sister. 
The  tall,  shy  soprano  told  us  haltingly  how  much 
she  had  enjoyed  the  hour  and  her  words  conveyed 
sincerity  in  spite  of  her  strange  system  of  over 
emphasis  of  everything  she  said,  and  of  carrying  down 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  as  if  in  deprecation.  The 
plump  little  contralto  thanked  us,  too,  with  a  most 
winning  smile  —  such  round  open  eyes  she  had,  im 
movably  fixed  on  the  object  of  her  attention,  and  as 
Pelleas  said  such  evident  eyes. 

"Her  eyes  looked  so  amazingly  like  eyes,"  he 
afterward  commented  whimsically. 

We  talked  too  with  the  little  woman  of  the  long- 
thumbed  gloves  who  had  the  extraordinary  habit  of 
smiling  faintly  and  turning  away  her  head  whenever 
she  detected  any  one  looking  at  her.  And  the  sweat 
shop  cartoonist  proved  to  be  an  engaging  young  giant 
with  the  figure  of  a  Greek  god,  classic  features,  a  man 
ner  of  gravity  amounting  almost  to  hauteur,  and  as 
pronounced  an  East  Side  dialect  as  I  have  ever  heard. 


22      LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

"Will  you  not  let  us,"  I  said  to  him,  after  Mr. 
Lovelow's  word  about  his  talent,  "  see  your  drawings 
sometime  ?  It  would  give  us  great  pleasure." 

Whereupon,  "Sure.  Me,  I'll  toin  de  whol'  of  'em 
over  to  youse,"  said  the  Greek  god,  thumbs  out  and 
shoulders  flickering. 

But  back  of  these  glimpses  of  reality  among  them 
there  was  something  still  more  real;  and  though  I 
dare  say  there  will  be  some  who  will  smile  at  the 
affair  and  call  that  interest  curiosity  and  those 
awkward  thanks  mere  aping  of  convention,  yet  Pel- 
leas  and  I  who  have  a  modest  degree  of  intelligence 
and  who  had  the  advantage  of  being  present  do  affirm 
that  on  that  Easter  morning  countless  little  doors 
were  opened  in  the  air  to  admit  a  throng  of  presences. 
We  cannot  tell  how  it  may  have  been,  and  we  are 
helpless  before  all  argument  and  incredulity,  but  we 
know  that  a  certain  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the 
door  of  the  hearts  of  us  all,  and  there  were  with  us 
those  in  shining  garments. 

In  the  midst  of  all  I  turned  to  ask  our  Little 
Friend  some  trivial  thing  and  I  saw  that  which  made 
my  old  heart  leap.  Little  Friend  stood  before  a 
table  of  the  lilies  and  with  her  was  young  Mr.  Love- 
low.  And  something  —  I  cannot  tell  what  it  may 
have  been,  but  in  these  matters  I  am  rarely  mis 
taken  ;  and  something  —  as  she  looked  up  and  he 
looked  down  —  made  me  know  past  all  doubting  how 


THE  ODOUR   OF  THE  OINTMENT  23 

it  was  with  them.  And  this  open  secret  of  their  love 
was  akin  to  the  mysteries  of  the  day  itself.  The 
gentle,  sad  young  clergyman  and  our  Little  Friend 
of  the  crimson  muffler  had  suddenly  opened  to  us 
another  door  and  admitted  another  joyous  presence. 
I  cannot  tell  how  it  may  be  with  every  one  else  but  for 
Pelleas  and  me  one  such  glimpse  —  a  glimpse  of 
two  faces  alight  with  happiness  on  the  street,  in  a 
car,  or  wherever  they  may  be  —  is  enough  to  make 
glad  a  whole  gray  week.  Though  to  be  sure  no  week 
is  ever  wholly  gray. 

I  was  still  busy  with  the  sweet  surprise  of  this  and 
longing  for  opportunity  to  tell  Pelleas,  when  they  all 
moved  toward  the  door  and  with  good-byes  filed 
into  the  hall.  And  there  in  the  anteroom  stood 
Nichola,  our  old  servant,  who  brushed  my  elbow 
and  said  in  my  ear :  — 

"Mem,  every  one  of  'em  looks  starvin'.  I've  a 
kettle  of  hot  coffee  on  the  back  of  the  range  an' 
there's  fresh  sponge-cake  in  plenty.  I've  put  cups 
on  the  dinin'-room  table,  an'  I  thought  — " 

"Nichola!"  said  I,  in  a  low  and  I  must  believe 
ecstatic  tone. 

"An'  no  end  o'  work  it's  made  me,  too,"  added  our 
old  servant  sourly,  and  not  to  be  thought  in  the  least 
gracious. 

It  was  a  very  practical  ending  to  that  radiant 
Easter  morning  but  I  dare  say  we  could  have  devised 


24  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

none  better.  Moreover  Nichola  had  ready  sand 
wiches  and  a  fresh  cheese  of  her  own  making,  and  a 
great  bowl  of  some  simple  salad  dressed  as  only 
her  Italian  hands  can  dress  it.  I  wondered  as  I 
sat  in  the  circle  of  our  guests,  a  vase  of  Easter 
lilies  on  the  table,  whether  Nichola,  that  grim  old 
woman  who  scorned  to  come  to  our  service,  had  yet 
not  brought  her  pound  of  ointment  of  spikenard, 
very  precious. 

"You  and  Mr.  Lovelow  are  to  spend  the  afternoon 
and  have  tea  with  us,"  I  whispered  Little  Friend,  and 
had  the  joy  of  seeing  the  tell-tale  colour  leap  glori 
ously  to  her  cheek  and  a  tell-tale  happiness  kindle  in 
his  eyes.  I  am  never  free  from  amazement  that  a 
mere  word  or  so  humble  a  plan  for  another's  pleasure 
can  give  such  joy.  Verily,  one  would  suppose  that 
we  would  all  be  so  busy  at  this  pastime  that  we 
would  almost  neglect  our  duties. 

So  when  the  others  were  gone  these  two  lingered. 
All  through  the  long  Spring  afternoon  they  sat  with 
us  beside  our  crackling  fire  of  bavin-sticks,  telling 
us  of  this  and  that  homely  interest,  of  some  one's 
timid  hope  and  another's  sacrifice,  in  the  life  of  the 
little  mission.  Ah,  I  dare  say  that  Carlyle  and  Hugo 
have  the  master's  hand  for  touching  open  a  casement 
here  and  there  and  letting  one  look  in  upon  an 
isolated  life,  and  sympathizing  for  one  passionate 
moment  turn  away  before  the  space  is  closed  again 


THE  ODOUR   OF  THE  OINTMENT  25 

with  darkness ;  but  these  two  were  destined  that  day 
to  give  us  glimpses  not  less  poignant,  to  open  to  us 
so  many  unknown  hearts  that  we  would  be  justified 
in  never  again  being  occupied  with  our  own  concerns. 
And  when  after  tea  they  stood  in  the  dusk  of  the  hall 
way  trying  to  say  good-bye,  I  think  that  their  secret 
must  have  shone  in  our  faces  too;  and,  as  the  chil 
dren  say,  "we  all  knew  that  we  all  knew,"  and  life 
was  a  thing  of  heavenly  blessedness. 

Young  Mr.  Lovelow  took  the  hand  of  Pelleas, 
and  mine  he  kissed. 

"The  Lord  bless  you,  the  Lord  make  his  face  to 
shine  upon  you,  the  Lord  give  you  peace,"  was  in  his 
eyes  as  he  went  away. 

"And,  O,  sir,"  Little  Friend  said  shyly  to  Pelleas 
as  she  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  knotting  her 
crimson  muffler,  "ain't  it  good,  after  all,  that  Easter 
was  all  over  ice  ? " 

That  night  Pelleas  carried  upstairs  a  great  armful 
of  the  Ascension  lilies  to  stand  in  the  moonlight  of 
our  window.  We  took  lilies  to  the  mantel,  and  set 
stalks  of  bloom  on  the  table,  with  their  trumpets 
turned  within  upon  the  room.  And  when  the  lower 
lights  had  been  extinguished  and  Nichola  had  bidden 
us  her  grumbling  good-night,  we  opened  the  door  of 
that  upper  room  where  the  moon  was  silvering  the  lilies; 
and  we  stood  still,  smitten  with  a  common  surprise. 


26  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  uncertainly,  "O,  Pelleas.  I 
thought  — " 

"So  did  I,"  said  Pelleas,  with  a  deep  breath. 

We  bent  above  the  lilies  that  looked  so  sweet- 
scented  and  yet  had  been  barren  of  fragrance  be 
cause,  we  had  told  ourselves,  they  seemed  flowers  of 
symbol  without  mission  or  message  beyond  the  sym 
bol,  without  hue  or  passion,  or,  so  to  say,  experience. 
("  Perhaps  if  one  were  to  make  some  one  happy  with 
them  or  to  put  them  in  a  bride's  bouquet  they 
would  no  longer  be  scentless,"  Pelleas  had  quaintly 
said.)  And  now  we  were  certain,  as  we  stood 
hushed  beside  them,  that  our  Easter  lilies  were  giving 
out  a  faint,  delicious  fragrance. 

I  looked  up  at  Pelleas  almost  fearfully  in  the 
flood  of  Spring  moonlight.  The  radiance  was  full 
on  his  white  hair  and  tranquil  face,  and  he  met 
my  eyes  with  the  knowledge  that  we  were  suddenly 
become  the  custodians  of  an  exquisite  secret.  The 
words  of  the  young  servant  of  God  came  to  me 
understandingly. 

"'And  the  house  shall  be  filled  with  the  odour  of 
the  ointment,'"  I  said  over.  "O,  Pelleas,"  I  added, 
tremulously,  "do  you  think  .  .  ." 

Pelleas  lifted  his  face  and  I  thought  that  it  shone 
in  the  dimness. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  answered,  "we  must  believe  all  the 
beautiful  things  we  can." 


II 

THE   MATINEE 

SOMEWHAT  later  in  the  Spring  Pelleas  was  obliged 
to  spend  one  whole  day  out  of  town.  He  was  vastly 
important  over  the  circumstance  and  packed  his 
bag  two  days  before,  which  alone  proves  his  ad 
vancing  years.  For  formerly  his  way  had  been 
to  complete  his  packing  in  the  cab  on  his  way  to 
the  train  at  that  moment  pulling  from  the  station. 
Now  he  gave  himself  an  hour  to  reach  the  ferry  to 
allow  for  being  blocked. 

"Yes,  that  alone  would  prove  that  we  are  seventy," 
I  said  sadly  as  I  stood  at  the  window  watching 
him  drive  away. 

Yet  if  ever  a  good  fairy  grants  you  one  wish  I 
advise  your  wishing  that  when  you  are  seventy  your 
heart  and  some  one  else's  heart  will  be  as  heavy  at  a 
separation  as  are  ours. 

"Pelleas,"  I  had  said  to  him  that  morning,  "I 
wish  that  every  one  in  the  world  could  love  some  one 
as  much  as  I  love  you." 

And  Pelleas  had  answered  seriously :  — 

"Remember,  Etarre,  that  every  one  in  the  world 

27 


28      LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

who  is  worth  anything  either  loves  as  we  do  or 
expects  to  do  so,  or  else  is  unhappy  because  he 
doesn't." 

"Not  every  one?"  I  remonstrated. 

"Every  one,"  Pelleas  repeated  firmly. 

I  wondered  about  that  after  he  went  away.  Not 
every  one,  surely.  There  was,  for  exception,  dear 
Hobart  Eddy  who  walked  the  world  alone,  loving 
every  one  exactly  alike;  and  there  was,  for  the  other 
extreme,  Nichola,  our  old  servant.  She  was  worth 
a  very  great  deal  but  she  loved  nobody,  not  even  us ; 
and  I  was  sure  that  she  prided  herself  on  it.  I 
could  not  argue  with  Pelleas  on  the  eve  of  a  journey 
but  I  harboured  the  matter  against  his  return. 

I  was  lonely  when  Pelleas  was  gone.  I  was  sitting 
by  the  fire  with  Semiramis  on  my  knee  —  an  Angora 
cannot  wholly  sympathize  with  you  but  her  aloofness 
can  persuade  you  into  peace  of  mind  —  when  the 
telephone  bell  rang.  We  are  so  seldom  wanted  that 
the  mere  ringing  of  the  bell  is  an  event  even,  as  usu 
ally  happens,  if  we  are  called  in  mistake.  This  time, 
however,  old  Nichola,  whose  tone  over  the  telephone 
is  like  that  of  all  three  voices  of  Cerberus  saying  "No 
admission,"  came  in  to  announce  that  I  was  wanted 
by  Miss  Wilhelmina  Lillieblade.  I  hurried  excitedly 
out,  for  when  Miss  "Willie"  Lillieblade  telephones 
she  has  usually  either  heard  some  interesting  news 
or  longs  to  invent  some.  She  is  almost  seventy  as 


THE   MATINEE  29 

well  as  I.  As  a  girl  she  was  not  very  interesting, 
but  I  sometimes  think  that  like  many  other  inanimate 
objects  she  has  improved  with  age  until  now  she  is 
delightful  and  reminds  me  of  spiced  cordials.  I  never 
see  a  stupid  young  person  without  applying  the  in 
animate  object  rule  and  longing  to  comfort  him 
with  it. 

"Etarre,"  Miss  Willie  said,  "you  and  Pelleas 
come  over  for  tea  this  afternoon.  I  am  alone  and  I 
have  a  lame  shoulder." 

"I'll  come  with  pleasure,"  said  I  readily,  "but 
Pelleas  is  away." 

"O,"  Miss  Willie  said  without  proper  regret, 
"Pelleas  is  away." 

For  a  moment  she  thought. 

"Etarre,"  she  said,  "let's  lunch  downtown  to 
gether  and  go  to  a  matinee." 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  old  ears. 

"W  —  we  two?"  I  quavered. 

"Certainly!"  she  confirmed  it,  "I'll  come  in  the 
coupe  at  noon." 

I  made  a  faint  show  of  resistance.  "What  about 
your  lame  shoulder?"  I  wanted  to  know. 

"Pooh!"  said  Miss  Willie,  "that  will  be  dead  in 
a  minute  and  then  I  won't  know  whether  it's  lame 


or  not." 


The  next  moment  she  had  left  the  telephone  and 
I  had  promised ! 


30  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

I  went  upstairs  in  a  delicious  flutter  of  excitement. 
When  our  niece  Lisa  is  with  us  I  watch  her  go  breezily 
off  to  matinees  with  her  young  friends,  but  "matinee" 
is  to  me  one  of  the  words  that  one  says  often  though 
they  mean  very  little  to  one,  like  "ant-arctic."  I 
protest  that  I  felt  myself  to  be  as  intimate  with  the 
appearance  of  the  New  Hebrides  as  with  the  ways  of 
a  matinee.  I  fancy  that  it  was  twenty  years  since 
I  had  seen  one.  Say  what  you  will,  evening  theater 
going  is  far  more  commonplace;  for  in  the  evening 
one  is  frivolous  by  profession  but  afternoon  frivolity 
is  stolen  fruit.  And  being  a  very  frivolous  old 
woman  I  find  that  a  nibble  or  so  of  stolen  fruit 
leavens  the  toast  and  tea.  Innocent  stolen  fruit, 
mind  you,  for  heaven  forbid  that  I  should  prescribe 
a  diet  of  dust  and  ashes. 

I  had  taken  from  its  tissues  my  lace  waist  and  was 
making  it  splendid  with  a  scrap  of  lavender  velvet 
when  our  old  servant  brought  in  fresh  candles.  She 
looked  with  suspicion  on  the  garment. 

"Nichola,"  I  said  guiltily,  "I'm  going  to  a 
matinee.  And  you'll  need  get  no  luncheon,"  I 
hastened  to  add,  "because  I'm  lunching  with  Miss 
Lillieblade." 

"Yah!"  said  Nichola,  "going  to  a  matinee?" 

Nichola  says  "matiknee,"  and  she  regards  a  theater 
box  as  among  all  self-indulgences  the  unpardonable 
sin. 


THE  MATINEE  31 

"You'll  have  no  luncheon  to  get,  Nichola,"  I 
persuasively  reminded  her. 

Old  Nichola  clicked  the  wax  candles. 

"Me,  I'd  rather  get  up  lunch  for  a  fambly  o' 
shepherds,"  she  grimly  assured  me,  "than  to  hev  you 
lose  your  immortal  soul  at  this  late  day." 

She  went  back  to  the  kitchen  and  I  was  minded 
to  take  off  the  lavender  velvet ;  but  I  did  not  do  so, 
my  religion  being  independent  of  the  spectrum. 

At  noon  Nichola  was  in  the  drawing-room  fasten 
ing  my  gaiters  when  Miss  Lillieblade  came  in,  erect 
as  a  little  brown  and  white  toy  with  a  chocolate 
cloak  and  a  frosting  hood. 

"  We  are  going  to  see '  The  End  of  the  World,' "  said 
Miss  Willie  blithely,  — "  I  knew  you  haven't  seen  it, 
Etarre." 

Old  Nichola,  who  is  so  privileged  that  she  will 
expect  polite  attention  even  on  her  death-bed,  listened 
eagerly. 

"Is  it  somethin'  of  a  religious  play,  mem?"  she 
hopefully  inquired. 

"I  dare  say,  Nichola,"  replied  Miss  Willie  kindly; 
and  afterward,  to  me:  "But  I  hope  not.  Religious 
plays  are  so  ungodly." 

Her  footman  helped  us  down  the  steps,  not  by  any 
means  that  we  required  it  but  for  what  does  one  pay 
a  footman  I  would  like  to  ask  ?  And  we  drove  away 
to  a  little  place  which  I  cannot  call  a  cafe.  I  would 


32     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

as  readily  lunch  at  a  ribbon-counter  as  in  a  cafe.  But 
this  was  a  little  place  where  Pelleas  and  I  often  had 
our  tea,  a  place  that  was  all  of  old  rugs  and  old  brasses 
in  front,  and  in  secret  was  set  with  tete-a-tete  tables 
having  each  one  rose  and  one  shaded  candle.  The 
linen  was  what  a  cafe  would  call  lace  and  the  china 
may  have  been  china  or  it  may  have  been  garlands 
and  love-knots.  From  where  I  sat  I  could  see 
shelves  filled  with  home-made  jam,  labeled,  like 
library-books,  and  looking  far  more  attractive  than 
some  peoples'  libraries.  We  ordered  tea  and  chicken- 
broth  and  toast  and  a  salad  and,  because  we  had 
both  been  forbidden,  a  sweet.  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  neither  of  us  ate  the  sweet  but  we  pretended 
not  to  notice. 

We  talked  about  the  old  days  —  this  is  no  sign 
of  old  age  but  rather  of  a  good  memory;  and  pres 
ently  I  was  reminded  of  what  Pelleas  had  assured  me 
that  morning  about  love. 

"Where  did  you  go  to  school?"  Miss  Willie  had 
been  asking  me. 

"At  Miss  Mink's  and  Miss  Burdick's,"  I  answered, 
"  and  I  was  counting  up  the  other  day  that  if  either 
of  them  is  alive  now  she  is  about  one  hundred  and 
five  years  old  and  in  the  newspapers  on  her  birthday." 

"Miss  Mink  and  Miss  Burdick  alive  now,"  Miss 
Willie  repeated.  "No,  indeed.  They  would  rather 
die  than  be  alive  now.  They  would  call  it  proof  of 


THE   MATINEE  33 

ill-breeding  not  to  die  at  threescore  and  ten  each 
according  to  rule.  I  went  to  Miss  Trelawney's. 
I  had  an  old  aunt  who  had  brought  me  up  to  say 
'Ma'am?'  when  I  failed  to  understand;  but  if  I 
said  'Ma'am?'  in  school,  Miss  Trelawney  made  me 
learn  twenty  lines  of  Dante ;  and  if  I  didnt  say  it  at 
home  I  was  not  allowed  to  have  dessert.  Between 
the  two  I  loved  poetry  and  had  a  good  digestion  and 
my  education  extended  no  farther." 

"That  is  quite  far  enough,"  I  said.  "I  don't  know 
a  better  preparation  for  life  than  love  of  poetry  and  a 
good  digestion." 

If  I  could  have  but  one  —  and  yet  why  should  I 
take  sides  and  prejudice  anybody  ?  Still,  Pelleas 
had  a  frightful  dyspepsia  one  winter  and  it  would 
have  taken  forty  poets  armed  to  the  teeth  —  but  I 
really  refuse  to  prejudice  anybody. 

Then  I  told  Miss  Willie  how  at  Miss  Mink's  and 
Miss  Burdick's  I  had  had  my  first  note  from  a  boy; 
I  slept  with  it  under  my  pillow  and  I  forgot  it  and  the 
maid  carried  it  to  Miss  Mink,  and  I  blush  to  recall 
that  I  appeared  before  that  lady  with  the  defense  that 
according  to  poetry  my  note  was  worth  more  than  her 
entire  curriculum,  and  triumphantly  referred  her  to 
"Summum  Bonum."  She  sent  me  home,  I  recall. 
And  then  Miss  Willie  told  how  having  successfully 
evaded  chapel  one  winter  evening  at  Miss  Trelaw 
ney's  she  had  waked  in  the  night  with  the  certainty 


34  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

that  she  had  lost  her  soul  in  consequence  and,  unable 
to  rid  herself  of  the  conviction,  she  had  risen  and 
gone  barefoot  through  the  icy  halls  to  the  chapel 
and  there  had  been  horrified  to  find  old  Miss  Tre- 
lawney  kneeling  with  a  man's  photograph  in  her 
hands. 

"Isn't  it  strange,  Etarre,"  said  Miss  Willie,  "how 
the  little  mysteries  and  surprises  of  loving  some  one 
are  everywhere,  from  one's  first  note  from  a  boy  to 
the  Miss  Trelawheys  whom  every  one  knows  ?" 

Sometimes  I  think  that  it  is  almost  impudent  to 
wonder  about  one's  friends  when  one  is  certain  be 
yond  wondering  that  they  all  have  secret  places  in 
their  hearts  filled  with  delight  and  tears.  But 
remembering  what  Pelleas  had  said  that  morning  I 
did  wonder  about  Miss  Willie,  since  I  knew  that  for 
all  her  air  of  spiced  cordial  she  was  lonely;  and  yet 
mentally  I  placed  Miss  Willie  beside  old  Nichola  and 
Hobart  Eddy,  intending  to  use  all  three  as  instances 
to  crush  the  argument  of  Pelleas.  Surely  of  all  the 
world,  I  decided,  those  three  loved  nobody. 

At  last  we  left  the  pleasant  table,  nodding  good- 
afternoon  to  the  Cap  and  Ribbons  who  had  been 
cut  from  a  coloured  print  to  serve  us.  We  lingered 
among  the  brasses  and  the  casts,  feeling  very  humble 
before  the  proprietor  who  looked  like  a  duchess 
cut  from  another  coloured  print.  I  envied  her  that 
library  of  jelly. 


THE   MATINEE  35 

On  the  street  Miss  Willie  bought  us  each  a  rose 
for  company  and  then  bade  the  coachman  drive 
slowly  so  that  we  entered  the  theater  with  the  orches 
tra,  which  is  the  only  proper  moment.  If  one  is 
earlier  one  feels  as  if  one  looked  ridiculously  expec 
tant;  if  one  is  later  one  misses  the  pleasure  of  being 
expectant  at  all.  We  were  in  a  lower  stage  box 
and  all  the  other  boxes  were  filled  with  bouquets  of 
young  people,  with  a  dry  stalk  or  two  magnificently 
bonneted  set  stiffly  among  them.  I  hope  that  we 
did  not  seem  too  absurd,  Miss  Willie  and  I  with  our 
bobbing  white  curls  all  alone  in  that  plump  crimson 
box. 

"The  End  of  the  World"  proved  to  be  a  fresh, 
happy  play,  fragrant  of  lavender  and  sweet  air.  The 
play  was  about  a  man  and  a  woman  who  loved  each 
other  very  much  with  no  analyses  or  confessions  to 
disturb  any  one.  The  blinds  were  open  and  the  sun 
streamed  in  through  four  acts  of  pleasant  humour 
and  quick  action  among  well-bred  people  who  mani 
festly  had  been  brought  up  to  marry  and  give  in 
marriage  without  trying  to  compete  with  a  state  where 
neither  is  done.  In  the  fourth  act  the  moon  shone 
on  a  little  chalet  in  the  leaves  and  one  saw  that  there 
are  love  and  sacrifice  and  good  will  enough  to  carry 
on  the  world  in  spite  of  its  other  connections.  It  was 
a  play  which  made  me  thankful  that  Pelleas  and  I 
have  clung  to  each  other  through  society  and  poverty 


36      LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

and  dyspepsia  and  never  have  allied  ourselves  with 
the  other  side.  And  if  any  one  thinks  that  there  is 
a  middle  ground  I,  who  am  seventy,  know  far  better. 

Now  in  the  third  act  it  chanced  that  the  mother 
of  the  play,  so  to  speak,  at  the  height  of  her  ambition 
that  her  daughter  marry  a  fortune  as  she  herself  had 
done,  opened  an  old  desk  and  came  upon  a  photo 
graph  of  the  love  of  her  own  youth,  whom  she  had 
not  married.  That  was  a  sufficiently  hackneyed 
situation,  and  the  question  that  smote  the  mother 
must  be  one  that  is  beating  in  very  many  hearts  that 
give  no  sign;  for  she  had  truly  loved  this  boy 
and  he  had  died  constant  to  her.  And  the 
woman  prayed  that  when  she  died  she  might 
"go  back  and  be  with  him."  Personally,  be 
ing  a  very  hard  and  unforgiving  old  woman,  I 
had  little  patience  with  her;  and  besides  I  think 
better  of  heaven  than  to  believe  in  any  such  neces 
sity.  Still  this  may  be  because  Pelleas  and  I 
are  certain  that  we  will  belong  to  each  other  when 
we  die.  Perhaps  if  I  had  not  married  him  —  but 
then  I  did. 

Hardly  had  the  curtain  fallen  when  to  my  amaze 
ment  Miss  Willie  Lillieblade  leaned  forward  with 
this :  — 

"Etarre,  do  you  believe  that  those  who  truly  love 
each  other  here  are  going  to  know  each  other  when 
they  die?" 

V 


THE   MATINEE  37 

"Certainly !"  I  cried,  fearing  the  very  box  would 
crumble  at  the  heresy  of  that  doubt. 

"No  matter  how  long  after  .  .  ."  she  said  wist 
fully. 

"Not  a  bit  of  difference,"  I  returned  positively. 

"You  and  Pelleas  can  be  surer  than  most,"  Miss 
Willie  said  reflectively,  "but  suppose  one  of  you  had 
died  fifty  years  ago.  Would  you  be  so  sure?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  I  replied,  "Pelleas  was  always 
Pelleas." 

"So  he  was,"  Miss  Willie  assented  and  was  silent 
for  a  little;  and  then,  without  warning:  — 

"Etarre,  I  mean  this,"  she  said,  speaking  rapidly 
and  not  meeting  my  eyes.  "When  I  was  twenty  I 
met  a  boy  a  little  older  than  I,  and  I  had  known  him 
only  a  few  months  when  he  went  abroad  to  join  his 
father.  Before  he  went  —  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
me  — "  it  was  like  seeing  jonquils  bloom  in  snow  to 
hear  Miss  Willie  say  this  —  "and  I  know  that  I 
loved  him.  But  I  did  not  go  with  him  —  he  wanted 
me  to  go  and  I  did  not  go  with  him  —  for  stupid 
reasons.  He  was  killed  on  a  mountain  in  Switzer 
land.  And  I  wonder  and  wonder  —  you  see  that 
was  fifty  years  ago,"  said  Miss  Willie,  "but  I  won 
der  .  .  ." 

I  sat  up  very  straight,  hardly  daring  to  look  at  her. 
All  you  young  people  who  talk  with  such  pretty 
concern  of  love,  do  you  know  what  it  will  be  when 


38  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

you  are  seventy  to  come  suddenly  on  one  of  these 
flowers,  still  fresh,  which  you  toss  about  you  now  ? 

"Since  he  died  loving  you  and  you  have  loved  him 
all  these  years,"  I  said,  trying  to  keep  my  voice 
steady,  "never  tell  me  that  you  will  not  be  each  other's 
—  afterward." 

And  at  least  no  one  need  gainsay  this  who  is  not 
prepared  to  prove  the  contrary. 

"But  where  —  where?"  cried  Miss  Willie,  poor 
little  Miss  Willie,  echoing  the  cry  of  every  one  in  the 
world.  It  was  very  strange  to  see  this  little  vial  of 
spiced  cordial  wondering  about  the  immortality  of 
love. 

"I  don't  know  where  or  how,"  I  said,  "but  believe 
it  and  you'll  see." 

Ah,  how  I  reproached  myself  later  to  think  that 
I  could  have  said  no  more  than  that.  Many  a  fine 
response  that  I  might  have  made  I  compounded 
afterward,  all  about  love  that  is  infinite  and  eternal 
so  that  it  fills  the  universe  and  one  cannot  get  beyond 
it,  and  so  on,  in  long  phrases;  but  there  in  that  box 
not  one  other  word  could  I  say.  And  yet  when  one 
thinks  of  it  what  is  there  to  say  when  one  is  asked 
about  this  save  simply :  "  I  don't  know  how  or  where, 
but  believe  it  and  you'll  see." 

We  said  little  else,  and  I  sat  there  with  all  that 
company  of  blue  and  pink  waists  dancing  about  me 
through  a  mist  in  a  fashion  that  would  have  as- 


THE   MATINEE  39 

tonished  them.  So  much  for  Miss  Willie  as  an 
instance  in  my  forthcoming  argument  with  Pelleas 
about  every  one  in  the  world  loving  some  one.  Miss 
Willie  had  gone  over  to  his  side  of  the  case  outright. 
I  began  to  doubt  that  there  would  be  an  argument. 
Still,  there  would  always  be  Hobart  Eddy,  inalienably 
on  my  side  and  serenely  loving  every  one  alike.  And 
there  would  always  be  Nichola,  loving  nobody.  If 
all  the  world  fell  in  love  and  went  quite  mad,  there 
would  yet  be  Nichola  fluting  her  "Yah!"  to  any 
such  fancy. 

I  dare  say  that  neither  Miss  Willie  nor  I  heard 
very  much  of  that  last  act  in  spite  of  its  moonlit  chalet 
among  the  leaves.  But  one  picture  I  carried  away 
with  me  and  the  sound  of  one  voice.  They  were 
those  of  a  girl,  a  very  happy  girl,  waiting  at  the 
door  of  the  chalet. 

"Dear,"  she  said  to  her  sweetheart,  "if  we  had 
never  met,  if  we  had  never  seen  each  other,  it  seems 
as  if  my  love  for  you  would  have  followed  you  with 
out  my  knowing.  Maybe  some  day  you  would  have 
heard  it  knocking  at  your  heart,  and  you  would  have 
called  it  a  wish  or  a  dream." 

Afterward  I  recalled  that  I  was  saying  over  those 
words  as  we  made  our  way  up  the  aisle. 

We  were  almost  the  last  to  leave  the  theater.  I  like 
that  final  glimpse  of  a  place  where  happy  people 
have  just  been.  We  found  the  coupe  and  a  frantic 


40  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

carriageman  put  us  in,  very  gently,  though  he  banged 
the  door  in  that  fashion  which  seems  to  be  the  only 
outlet  to  a  carriageman's  emotions. 

"Good-night,"  said  Miss  Willie  Lillieblade  at 
my  door,  and  gave  my  hand  an  unwonted  lingering 
touch.  I  knew  why.  Dear,  starved  heart,  she 
must  have  longed  for  years  to  talk  about  that  boy. 
I  watched  her  coupe  roll  toward  the  great  lonely 
house.  Never  tell  me  that  the  boy  who  died  in 
Switzerland  was  not  beside  her  hearth  waiting  her 
coming. 

Our  drawing-room  was  dimly  lighted.  I  took  off 
my  bonnet  there  and  found  myself  longing  for  my  tea. 
I  am  wont  to  ring  for  Nichola  only  upon  stately 
occasions  and  certainly  not  at  times  when  in  her 
eyes  I  tremble  on  the  brink  of  "losing  my  immortal 
soul  at  this  late  day."  Accordingly  I  went  down  to 
the  kitchen. 

I  cautiously  pushed  open  the  door,  for  I  am  frankly 
afraid  of  Nichola  who  is  in  everything  a  frightful 
non-conformist.  There  was  no  fire  on  the  hearth, 
but  the  bracket  lamp  was  lighted  and  on  a  chair 
lay  Nichola's  best  shawl.  Nichola,  in  her  best 
black  frock  and  wearing  her  best  bonnet,  was  just 
arranging  the  tea-things  on  a  tray. 

"I'm  glad  that  you've  been  out,  Nichola,"  said  I 
gently  —  as  gently  as  a  truant  child,  I  fancy  !  —  "It 
is  such  a  beautiful  day." 


THE   MATINEE  4< 

"Who,"  Nichola  said  grimly  without  looking  at 
me,  "said  I'd  been  out?" 

"Why,  I  saw  you  — "   I  began. 

"Where  was  I?"  Nichola  demanded  shrilly, 
whirling  about. 

"I  saw  you  with  your  bonnet  on,"  said  I,  and 
added  with  dignity,  "You  may  bring  the  tea  up  at 
once,  and  mind  that  there  is  plenty  of  hot  water." 

Then  I  scurried  upstairs,  my  heart  beating  at  my 
daring.  I  had  actually  ordered  Nichola  about.  I 
half  expected  that  in  consequence  she  would  bring 
me  cold  water,  but  she  came  up  quietly  enough 
with  some  delicious  tea  and  sandwiches.  At  the 
door,  with  unwonted  meekness,  she  asked  me  if 
everything  was  right;  and  I,  not  abating  one  jot  of 
my  majesty,  told  her  that  there  might  be  a  bit  more 
cream.  She  even  brought  that  and  left  me  marvel 
ing.  I  could  as  easily  imagine  the  kitchen  range 
with  an  emotion  as  Nichola  with  a  guilty  conscience, 
and  yet  sometimes  I  have  a  guilty  conscience  myself 
and  I  always  act  first  very  self-sufficient  and  then  very 
humble,  just  like  Nichola. 

When  she  was  handing  the  dessert  that  night  at  my 
solitary  dinner,  she  spoke ;  and  if  the  kitchen  range 
had  kissed  a  hand  at  me  I  should  not  have  been  more 
amazed. 

"  Every  one  took  their  parts  very  well  this  afternoon, 
I  thought,"  she  stiffly  volunteered. 


42  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

I  looked  at  her  blankly.  Then  slowly  it  dawned 
for  me :  The  best  shawl,  the  guilty  conscience  — 
Nichola  had  been  to  the  matinee ! 

"Nichola  !"  I  said  unguardedly.     "Were  you—" 

" Certain,"    she    said     curtly,    "I    ain't    no    call 

to  be  no  more  careful  o'  my  soul  than  what  you 


are." 


I,  the  keeper  of  Nichola,  who  has  bullied  Pelleas 
and  me  about  for  years ! 

"Did  — did  you  like  it,  Nichola?"  I  asked 
doubtfully,  a  little  unaware  how  to  treat  a  discussion 
of  original  sin  like  this. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  replied  unexpectedly.  "But  — 
do  you  believe  all  of  it  ? " 

"Believe  that  it  really  happened?"  I  asked  in 
bewilderment. 

"No,"  said  Nichola,  catching  up  a  corner  of 
the  table-cloth  in  her  brown  ringers;  "believe  what 
she  said  —  in  the  door  there  ?" 

It  came  to  me  then  dimly,  but  before  I  could  tell 
or  remember  .  .  . 

"That  about  'If  we  hadn't  never  met,'"  Nichola 
quoted;  "'it  sorter  seems  as  though  my  love  would 
V  followed  you  up  even  if  I  didn't  know  about  it  an' 
mebbe  you'd  'a'  heard  it  somewheres  an'  'a'  thought 
you  was  a-wishin'  or  a-dreamin'  — '  that  part,"  said 
Nichola. 

And  then  I  understood  —  I  understood. 


THE   MATINEE  43 

"Nichola,"  I  said,  "yes.  I  believe  it  with  all  my 
heart.  I  know  it  is  so!" 

Nichola  looked  at  me  wistfully. 

"But  wishin'  may  be  just  wishin',"  she  said,  "an* 
dreamin'  nights  may  be  just  dreamin'  nights  — " 

"Never,"  I  cried  positively.  "Most  of  the  time 
these  are  voices  of  the  people  who  would  have  loved 
us  if  we  had  ever  met." 

Old  Nichola's  face,  with  its  little  unremembering 
eyes  beneath  her  gray  moss  hair,  seldom  changes 
expression  save  to  look  angry.  I  think  that 
Nichola,  like  the  carriageman  slamming  the  doors, 
relieves  all  emotion  by  anger.  When  I  die  I  expect 
that  in  proof  of  her  grief  she  will  drive  every  one  out 
of  the  house  with  the  broom.  Therefore  I  was  not 
surprised  to  see  her  look  at  me  now  with  a  sudden 
frown  and  flush  that  should  have  terrorized  me. 

"Heaven  over  us!"  she  said,  turning  abruptly. 
"The  silly  folks  that  dream.  I  never  dreamed  a 
thing  in  my  life.  Do  you  want  more  pudding- 
sauce  ?" 

"No,"  I  said  gently,  "no,  Nichola." 

I  was  not  deceived.  Nichola  knew  it,  and  went 
in  the  pantry,  muttering.  But  I  was  not  deceived. 
I  knew  what  she  had  meant.  Nichola,  that  old 
woman  whose  life  had  some  way  been  cast  up  on 
this  barren  coast  near  the  citadel  of  the  love  of  Pel- 
leas  and  me;  Nichola,  who  had  lived  lonely  in  the 


44  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

grim  company  of  the  duties  of  a  household  not  her 
own ;  Nichola,  at  more  than  sixty,  was  welcoming  the 
belief  that  the  love  which  she  never  had  inspired  was 
some  way  about  her  all  the  time. 

Where  was  my  side  of  the  argument  to  be  held 
with  Pelleas  ?  Where,  indeed  ?  But  I  was  glad  to 
see  it  go.  And  I  serenely  put  away  until  another 
time  the  case  of  Hobart  Eddy. 

All  the  evening  I  sat  quietly  before  the  hearth. 
There  was  no  need  for  books.  The  drawing-room 
was  warm  and  bright;  supper  for  Pelleas  was  drawn 
to  the  open  fire  and  my  rose  was  on  the  tray.  When 
I  heard  him  close  the  front  door  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  must  welcome  him  for  us  three,  for  Miss  Willie 
and  Nichola  and  me. 


Ill 

THE    PATH    OF    IN-THE-SPRING 

THE  case  of  Hobart  Eddy  had  always  interested 
us,  —  dear  Hobart  Eddy  with  whom  matters  stood  like 
this:  Heaven  had  manifestly  intended  him  to  be  a 
Young  Husband,  and  yet  he  was  thirty-five  and  walked 
the  world  alone. 

Pelleas  and  I  were  wont  to  talk  of  him  before  our 
drawing-room  fire.  Hobart  Eddy,  we  were  agreed, 
was  one  of  the  men  who  look  like  a  young  husband. 
By  that  I  cannot  in  the  least  explain  what  I  mean, 
but  he  was  wont  to  bend  above  a  book  or  lean  toward 
a  picture  exactly  as  another  man  would  say:  "And 
how  are  you  to-day,  dear  ?"  If  he  were  to  have  en 
tered  a  coach  in  which  I  was  traveling  I  think  that 
I  should  involuntarily  have  looked  about  for  some 
girlish  face  to  be  lighting  at  his  coming.  Therefore 
we  two  had  been  wont  to  amuse  ourselves  by  pictur 
ing,  but  without  much  hope,  his  possible  wife;  she 
must  be  so  many  things  to  him  that  we  found  it 
difficult  to  select  any  one  in  whom  to  rest  our  expec 
tation,  faint  yet  persistent.  Though  I  knew  no  one 
save  Pelleas  himself  who  would  have  been  as  a  lover 

45 


46     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

so  adorable,  as  a  husband  so  tender,  the  problem 
was  not  quite  so  simple;  for  Hobart  Eddy  was  a 
king  of  the  social  hour  and  a  ruler  of  many. 

"The  allegro,  quite  the  allegro  of  my  dinner  sym 
phony,"  Miss  Willie  Lillieblade  had  once  thank 
fully  flattered  him.  "Ah,  you  were  more.  You  were 
the  absolute  conductor.  You  were  the  salvation  of 
our  tempo  during  the  entree.  The  dear  Bishop, 
who  thought  he  was  the  religious  theme  for  the  trom 
bones,  how  you  quieted  his  ecclesiastical  chantings. 
How  you  modulated  the  sputterings  of  that  French 
horn  of  a  count.  And  ah,  my  dear  Hobart,  how  you 
obeyed  my  anxious  sforzando  over  my  mute  little 
guest  of  honour.  I've  no  beaux  yeux  to  look  you 
thanks,  but  I  appreciated  every  breath  of  your 
baton." 

Thus,  with  his  own  charm,  Hobart  Eddy  was  one 
whom  it  was  a  simple  thing  to  adore;  and  as  Pelleas 
said  with  twinkling  cruelty  debutantes  are  dear, 
simple  things.  But  among  them  all  season  after 
season  Hobart  moved,  boyishly  interested,  urbanely 
ready  as  we  thought  to  do  the  homage  of  the 
devotee  and,  one  might  have  said,  urbanely  unable. 
And  season  after  season  we  had  failed  to  plan  for 
him  a  concrete  romance.  For  we  thought  that 
his  wife  should  be  no  less  than  he  a  social  ruler 
of  many,  yet  she  must  have  his  own  detached  heart 
of  youth.  Moreover,  we  wished  her  to  be  clever,  but 


THE   PATH   OF   IN-THE-SPRING  47 

not  to  every  one;  and  wise,  though  with  a  pretty 
unreason;  and  girlishly  unconscious,  or  if  she  was 
conscious  then  just  conscious  enough ;  and  very 
willing  to  be  ordered  about  a  bit,  though  losing 
none  of  her  pretty  imperiousness  —  ah  well,  no 
wonder  the  case  of  Hobart  Eddy  baffled  us.  No 
wonder  that  I  believed  him  hopeless  as  I  had 
believed  Nichola,  who  loves  no  one.  We  should 
long  ago  have  laid  the  matter  by  if  only  there  had 
not  persisted  about  him  that  Devoted  Young  Hus 
band  look. 

It  was  in  the  week  made  memorable  both  by  our 
Easter  day  experience  and  by  the  moral  of  my  mati 
nee  that  our  thought  momentarily  took  up  the  case 
of  Hobart  Eddy  in  earnest.  Indeed,  our  Easter 
day  and  my  matinee  did  much  to  shape  our  Summer. 
For  on  a  sudden  it  seemed  so  easy  to  make  happiness 
in  the  world  as  well  as  to  look  close  and  read  the  fine 
print  of  romance  that  we  found  ourselves  with  almost 
no  leisure.  And  in  that  very  week  Viola  unex 
pectedly  came  home  from  school. 

Viola  is  a  niece  of  my  dear  Madame  Sally  Char- 
tres  and  the  previous  Spring  she  had  nominally  spent 
a  week  with  Pelleas  and  me.  I  say  nominally  be 
cause  in  reality  she  had  spent  it  before  the  telephone 
on  our  landing. 

"Viola,  who,"  Pelleas  had  been  wont  to  say, 
"sounds  like  a  Greek  maiden  captive  in  an  Illyrian 


48  LOVES    OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

household  and  beloved  of  a  Greek  youth,  Telephone, 
in  four  syllables." 

He  was  a  young  bank  clerk  in  Broad  street  and  he 
seemed  to  have  a  theory  that  whenever  any  one  else 
had  used  the  telephone  Viola  was  no  longer  at  the 
other  end,  and  he  was  obliged  to  make  sure.  "Miss 
Viola,  the  telephone  wants  to  talk  to  you/*  Nichola 
had  announced  all  day  long.  And  though  Pelleas 
and  I  are  the  first  to  love  a  lover,  some  way  the  case 
failed  to  impress  us  to  partisanship — just  as  we  lose 
sympathy  with  the  influenza  of  a  man  who  is  per 
petually  shutting  the  car  door. 

"If  I  were  a  telephone,"  Pelleas  would  say,  "in 
tended  by  Science  for  uses  of  medicine,  bonds  and 
the  like  I  should  get  out  of  order  if  they  tried  to  make 
me  a  courtier." 

"Pelleas,"  I  had  justly  protested,  "you  would  be 
the  first  to  be  delighted." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  admitted,  "I  dare  say  I  should,  but 
then  you  see  I  know  so  little  about  science." 

When  that  Summer  it  was  decided  that  Viola 
should  complete  her  school  in  Switzerland,  Pelleas 
and  I  understood  that  the  Chartres  family  sympa 
thized  with  our  own  impression  about  our  telephone. 
But  before  the  end  of  the  year  Viola  unexpectedly 
returned  from  Lausanne.  And  the  April  day  on 
which  we  learned  of  this  from  Hobart  Eddy  was 
further  memorable  to  us:  For  it  was  on  that  very 


THE   PATH   OF  IN-THE-SPRING  49 

morning  that  the  first  rose-breasted  grosbeaks  ap 
peared  in  the  park. 

West  of  the  walk  leading  from  the  south  to  the 
Reservoir  Castle  in  the  park  there  is  a  little  brick 
path,  steep  and  uneven  and  running  crookedly  down 
ward  like  a  mere  mood  of  the  sober  walk  itself.  The 
path  is  railed  in  from  the  crowding  green  things  on 
either  side,  but  the  rail  hardly  thwarts  a  magnificent 
Forsythia  which  tosses  its  sprays  to  curve  high  over 
the  way  like  the  curve  of  wings  in  flight.  It  was  a 
habit  of  ours  to  seek  out  this  path  once  or  twice  every 
Spring  and  to  stand  beneath  these  branches.  Some 
way  when  we  did  that  we  were  sure  that  it  was  Spring, 
for  we  seemed  to  catch  its  high  moment;  as  for 
another  a  bell  might  strike  somewhere  with  "One, 
two,  three :  Now  it  is  the  crest  of  May.  Four,  five, 
six :  Now  this  apple-tree  is  at  the  very  height  of  its 
bloom.  This  is  the  moment  of  this  rose."  We  called 
this  path  the  path  of  In-the-Spring.  We  always 
went  there  in  the  mornings,  for  in  Spring  we  think 
that  it  seems  to  be  more  Spring  in  the  morning  than 
in  the  afternoon.  And  it  was  here  of  an  April  Nine- 
o'clock  that  we  saw  our  first  pair  of  grosbeaks  of  the 
year. 

They  alighted  quite  close  to  us  as  if  for  them  we 
were  not  there.  They  were  on  some  pleasant  busi 
ness  of  testing  the  flavour  of  buds  and  the  proud, 
rose-throated  male,  vibrating  his  wings  the  while, 


50  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

gave  us  his  note  as  if  he  were  the  key  to  the  whole 

matter.  And  I  think  that  he  was  . .  .  — ^^ 

.  — .  —  ?  he  imparted,  and  it  was  like  revelation  and 
prophecy  and  belief;  so  that  for  a  moment  we  were 
near  knowing  what  he  meant  and  what  he  is  and 
what  we  and  the  Forsythia  are.  But  the  information 
escaped  us  and  the  grosbeaks  flew  away.  However, 
they  left  us  their  blessing.  For  there  was  a  little  glow 
in  our  hearts  at  having  been  so  near. 

"Now,"  Pelleas  said  as  we  mounted  the  steep 
path  back  to  the  real  walk  (so  innocently  absorbed 
the  real  walk  looked  and  as  if  it  knew  nothing  at  all 
about  its  gay  little  aberration  of  a  path!).  "Now, 
that  must  mean  something. " 

"Of  course  it  must,"  said  I  contentedly.  "What 
must,  Pelleas?" 

He  answered  solemnly:  That  when  a  bird  or  a 
child  or  a  wood-creature  shows  you  confidence  it 
always  indicates  that  something  pleasant  is  about 
to  happen.  I  detected  his  mood  of  improvisation; 
but  who  am  I  to  dissent  from  an  improvisation  so 
satisfying  ? 

We  sat  on  the  first  bench  and  Pelleas  drew  out 
our  March-April  record.  In  a  little  town  of  the  West 
which  we  know  and  love  there  is  kept  each  Spring 
on  the  bulletin  board  of  the  public  library  a  list  of 
dates  of  the  return  of  the  migratory  birds  with  the 
names  of  those  who  first  saw  and  reported  them; 


THE   PATH   OF   IN-THE-SPRING  51 

and  there  is  the  pleasantest  rivalry  among  the  citi 
zens  to  determine  who  shall  announce  the  earliest 
appearances.  From  time  to  time  through  the  Spring 
this  list  is  printed  in  the  daily  newspaper.  Since  we 
knew  of  this  beautiful  custom  Pelleas  and  I  have 
always  made  a  list,  for  Spring.  That  day  our  record 
read :  — 

March    gth  .  .  Robin,  Pelleas. 

March  loth  .  .  Bluebird,  Etarre. 

March  I2th  .  .  Phoebe,  Etarre. 

NOTE.  —  Earliest  we  have  seen  in  five  years. 

March  i6th  .  .  Geese  (flying),  Pelleas. 

March  2 ist   .  .  Song  Sparrow,  Pelleas. 

March  2ist  .  .  Meadow  Lark,  Pelleas. 

NOTE. —  Not  perfectly  certain.  Nearly  so. 

April    5th     .  .  House  Wren,  Etarre. 

NOTE.  —  Did  not  sec  it.      Heard  it. 

April  1 2th     .  .  High  Holder,  Etarre. 

April  1 4th     .  .  Sparrow  Hawk,  Pelleas. 

NOTE.  —  May  have  been  a  pigeon  hawk. 

April  29th     .  .  Rose-breasted  grosbeaks  (pair),  Etarre  and  Pelleas. 

"It  sounds  like  a  programme  of  music,"  I  said. 

"All  lists  are  wonderful  things/'  said  Pelleas, 
folding  ours  away  in  his  portmonnaie;  "one  ought 
to  'keep'  a  great  many." 

I  did  not  at  once  agree.  To  be  sure  I  believe  pas 
sionately  in  lists  of  birds;  but  in  the  main  I  profess 
for  lists  a  profound  indifference.  As  for  "keeping 


52  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

a  diary"  I  would  as  soon  describe  a  walk  in  the 
woods  by  telling  the  number  of  steps  I  had  taken. 

"One  cannot  make  a  list  of  the  glory  of  a  thing," 
I  ventured  at  last. 

"Well,  no,"  Pelleas  admitted.  "If  only  one 
could  what  a  talisman  it  would  be  to  take  out  and 
read,  on  one's  worst  days." 

It  would  indeed.  But  I  suppose  that  one's  list 
of  Spring  birds  would  help  one  on  such  a  day  if  one 
would,  so  to  speak,  read  deep  down  into  the  page. 

"We  might  make  a  'Bird  List:  Part  Two/" 
Pelleas  suggested,  "  for  that  kind  of  thing." 

"But  how  could  one?"  I  objected;  "for  example: 
'April  2gth — Rose-breasted  grosbeak  day.  A  mo 
mentary  knowledge  that  there  is  more  about  a  bird 
and  about  what  he  is  and  about  what  we  are  than  one 
commonly  supposes'  You  see,  Pelleas,  how  absurd 
that  would  be." 

"Ah,  well,"  he  protested  stoutly,  "one  needn't 
try  to  write  it  out  In  words.  One  could  merely 
indicate  it.  Just  that  would  help  one  to  keep  alive 
the  thrill  of  a  thing.  Such  a  device  would  be  very 
dear  to  every  one." 

That  is  true.  To  keep  alive  the  thrill  of  a  thing, 
of  revelation,  of  prophecy,  of  belief  —  we  all  go  ask 
ing  how  to  do  that. 

"I  dare  say  though,"  Pelleas  said,  "that  one  could 
keep  it  alive  by  merely  passing  it  on.  The  point  is 


THE   PATH   OF   IN-THE-SPRINb  53 

to  keep  such  moments  alive.  Not  necessarily  to 
keep  them  for  one's  own." 

To  keep  alive  the  thrill  of  that  moment  when  we 
had  seen  the  grosbeaks,  the  high  moment  of  a 
Spring  morning;  not  to  know  these  little  ecstasies 
briefly,  but  to  abide  in  their  essential  peace;  is  this 
not  as  if  one  were  arbiter  of  certain  modes  of  im 
mortality  ? 

"Surely  that  would  make  one  a  'restorer  of  paths 
to  dwell  in,'  "  he  added. 

"A  restorer  of  the  path  of  In-the-Spring,"  I  said. 

Pelleas  turned  the  glasses  on  the  magnolias.  "On 
my  soul,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  thought  I  saw  a  tanager  !" 
And  when  we  had  stood  for  a  moment  to  watch  hope 
fully  and  had  been  disappointed  ("Why  shouldn't 
an  early  tanager  come,  to  help  us  to  believe?"  he 
wondered),  he  gave  a  vital  spark  to  what  I  had  said 
about  the  path  :  — 

"I  suppose  that  that  little  path  really  has  no 
ending,"  he  said;  "you  cannot  end  direction.  Yes, 
the  path  of  In-the-Spring  must  run  right  away  to  the 
end  of  the  world." 

We  walked  on  happily,  counting  the  robins,  lis 
tening  to  a  near  phoebe  call  to  a  far  phoebe,  watching 
two  wrens  pull  slivers  from  a  post  for  a  nest  they 
knew.  Across  the  green,  but  too  far  away  for  cer 
tainty,  we  thought  we  saw  a  cherry  bough  in  flower. 
• .  .  —  r\r\  .  —  ?  we  heard  the  gros- 


54  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

beak  once  again  from  somewhere  invisible.  The 
mornings  on  which  we  walk  in  the  park  seem  to  us 
almost  like  youth. 

The  augury  that  something  pleasant  was  about 
to  happen  was  further  fulfilled  when  we  came  in 
sight  of  our  house  and  saw  Hobart  Eddy's  great 
appalling  French  touring  car  like  an  elephant  kneel 
ing  at  our  curb.  Hobart  was  waiting  for  us  in  the 
drawing-room  and  he  stood  before  us  looking  down 
from  his  splendid  height  and  getting  his  own  way 
from  the  first. 

"Come,  Aunt  Etarre,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  car 
like  her.  I  want  you  both  to  run  over  to  Inglese 
to  see  Viola.  You  knew  that  she  has  come  home  ?" 

"Viola  — has  she  really?"  I  cried;  and,  "Have 
you  seen  her?"  asked  Pelleas;  and,  "How  does 
she  look?"  we  demanded  together. 

"No,"  Hobart  said,  "I've  not  seen  her.  I  had 
a  charming  little  note  from  her,  full  of  nods.  Now 
that  I  think  of  it,"  he  went  on  leisurely,  "Viola's 
charming  little  letters  are  always  very  like  a  bow 
from  her.  She  never  even  waves  her  hand  in  them. 
She  merely  bows,  in  ink.  I  think  I  shall  point  out 
to  her  that  if  ever  she  is  too  busy  to  write  letters  she 
might  send  about  her  handkerchiefs,  instead.  One 
would  tell  quite  as  much  as  the  other,  and  both 
suggest  orris.  .  .  ." 


THE   PATH   OF  IN-THE-SPRING  55 

"Hobart  Eddy,"  I  begged  impatiently,  "where  is 
Viola?" 

"She  is  in  Inglese-in-the-valley,  with  the  Chartres," 
he  told  me.  "Get  your  bonnet,  dear,  and  a  tremen 
dous  veil  and  come.  I'll  run  like  a  tortoise-shell  and 
you  shall  toot  the  horn." 

I  turned  tremblingly  to  Pelleas  for  I  had  never 
been  in  a  motor  car.  Lumbering  electric  hansoms 
and  victorias  had  borne  me,  but  the  kneeling  elephant 
was  another  matter.  But  Pelleas,  being  a  man,  is 
no  more  in  awe  of  machinery  than  I  am  of  chiffons; 
or  than  he  is  of  chiffons ;  and  he  assented  to  Inglese 
quite  simply. 

"Very  well,  Hobart  Eddy,"  I  said,  "I  will  go. 
You  are  charming  to  want  us.  But  bear  in  mind 
that  I  reserve  the  right  to  insist  that  you  are  running 
too  fast,  block  by  block.  And  if  anything  goes 
wrong  very  likely  I  shall  catch  at  the  brake." 

"I'll  lead  the  thing  by  the  bridle  if  you  say  so,"  he 
promised  faithfully. 

Presently  we  were  free  of  the  avenue,  skimming 
the  park,  threading  our  way  among  an  hundred 
excitements,  en  route  to  Inglese.  Hobart  Eddy 
was  driving  the  machine  himself  and  as  I  looked  at 
his  shoulders  I  found  to  my  amazement  that  I  was 
feeling  a  certain  confidence.  Hobart  Eddy  was  one 
of  the  men  whose  shoulders  —  ah,  well,  it  is  among  the 
hardships  of  life  that  one's  best  reasons  are  never 


56  LOVES   OF    PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

communicable.  But  I  was  feeling  a  certain  confi 
dence.  And  though  a  little  alarm  remained  to 
prove  me  conservative  I  found  myself  also  diverted. 
I  remember  trying  when  I  was  a  child  to  determine 
at  night  in  a  thunder-storm  which  of  me  was  fright 
ened  and  which  was  sleepy  and  deciding  that  some 
of  me  was  sleepy  but  all  of  me  was  frightened. 
And  now,  having  come  to  a  time  of  life  when  some 
terror  should  be  a  diversion,  all  of  me  was  diverted 
though  some  of  me  was  terrified.  Hobart  was  run 
ning  very  slowly  and  glancing  back  at  me  now  and 
then  to  nod  reassuringly.  The  very  sun  was  reas 
suring.  The  river  and  the  Long  Island  ferry  were 
reassuring.  On  such  a  day  certainty  is  as  easy  as 
song.  And  by  the  time  that  we  had  reached  the 
hills  about  Inglese  I  could  have  found  it  in  my  heart 
to  telephone  to  Pelleas  if  he  had  been  a  block  away : 
What  a  day.  I  love  you. 

Instead  I  sat  quietly  in  the  tonneau  when,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village,  Hobart  drew  the  car  to  the 
green  crest  of  a  little  height.  I  found  that  the 
tonneau  was  geometrically  in  the  one  precise  spot 
from  which  through  pine-  and  fir-trees  a  look  of  the 
sea  unrolled.  Hobart  is  a  perfect  host  and  is  always 
constructing  these  little  altars  to  the  inessential. 
On  a  journey  Pelleas  and  he  would  remember  to 
look  out  for  the  "view"  as  another  man  would  think 
of  trunk  checks.  But  Pelleas  and  Hobart  would 


THE   PATH   OF  IN-THE-SPRING  57 

remember  trunk  checks  too  and  it  is  this  combina 
tion  which  holds  a  woman  captive. 

"And  down  there,"  said  Hobart,  looking  the  other 
way,  "will  be  Viola  of  Inglese-in-the-valley.  It 
sounds  like  an  aria." 

"I  wonder,"  Pelleas  observed  on  this,  "whether 
Viola  is  still  in  love  with  our  telephone.  If  I  thought 
she  was  I  'should  certainly  take  it  out.  I  have 
never,"  Pelleas  added  conscientiously,  "taken  one 
out.  But  I  think  I  could.  I've  often  thought  I 
could.  And  that  should  do  for  him  —  that  young 
Greek  youth  Telephone" 

"Her  little  nod  of  a  letter,"  said  Hobart,  "seemed 
very  content.  So  content  that  either  she  must  have 
forgotten  all  about  your  telephone  or  else  she  had 
him  at  her  elbow.  They  say  there  are  those  two 


routes  to  content." 


Had  Hobart  himself  found  that  first  route,  I 
wondered.  For  some  years  now  we  had  seen  him 
merely  sitting  out  operas,  handing  tea,  leading  cotil 
lions,  and  returning  fans  —  urbane,  complaisant, 
perfectly  the  social  automaton.  But  always  we  had 
patiently  hoped  for  him  something  gracious.  In 
stead,  had  he  merely  found  the  content  of  some 
Forgetting  ?  And  if  this  was  so  he  was  in  case  still 
more  sad  than  if  he  were  unhappy.  Either  pos 
sibility  grieved  me.  I  am  not  unskillful  with  my 
needle  and  I  found  myself  oddly  longing  to  bring 


58     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

to  bear  my  embroidery  silks  and  cottons  upon 
Hobart  Eddy's  life.  If  only  I  might  have  em 
broidered  on  it  a  pattern  of  rosemary  or  heart's-ease — 
ay,  or  even  the  rue. 

And  suddenly  I  grasped  the  real  situation.  Here 
was  Hobart  for  whom  we  longed  to  plan  a  con 
crete  romance.  And  over  there,  in  Inglese,  was 
Viola  come  home  again,  grown  wiser,  more  beautiful, 
and  I  had  no  doubt  remaining  as  wholly  lovable  as 
before.  And  did  I  not  know  how  willingly  Madame 
Sally  Chartres  would  have  trusted  the  future  of  her 
little  grandniece  to  Hobart  Eddy  ?  Was  I  not,  in 
fact,  in  the  secret  of  certain  perfectly  permissible 
ideas  of  Madame  Sally's  on  the  subject  ?  Not  plans, 
but  ideas.  Moreover,  now  that  Viola  was  back  in 
America  there  was  once  more  the  peril  of  that  young 
Telephone.  And  if  Pelleas  and  I  had  devised  the 
matter  we  could  have  thought  of  no  lady  lovelier 
than  Viola.  I  turned  to  telegraph  to  Pelleas  and  I 
found  him  in  the  midst  of  the  merest  glance  at  me. 
It  was  one  of  the  glances  which  need  no  spelling. 
And  it  was  in  that  moment  as  if  between  us  there  had 
been  spoken  our  universal  and  unqualified,  Why  not? 

"Hobart,"  said  I,  "you  are  very  brave  to  go  to 
Inglese.  I  have  always  thought  that  any  man 
could  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  named  Viola." 

But  as  for  Hobart  he  serenely  took  one  of  the  side 
paths  which  he  is  so  fond  of  developing. 


THE   PATH  OF   IN-THE-SPRING  59 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  reflectively,  "Viola  begins 
with  a  V.  I'm  a  bit  afraid  of  V.  V  —  'the  viol,  the 
violet,  and  the  vine.'  V  sounds,"  he  continued,  as  if 
he  enjoyed  it,  "such  an  impractical  letter  —  a  kind 
of  apotheosis  of  B.  Wouldn't  one  say  that  V  is  a 
sort  of  poet  to  the  alphabet  ?  None  of  the  sturdi- 
ness  of  G  —  or  the  tranquillity  of  M  —  or  the  pi 
quancy  of  K  —  or  the  all-round  usefulness  of  E.  I 
don't  know,  really,  whether  a  woman  who  begins 
with  V  could  be  taken  seriously.  I  think  I  should 
feel  as  if  I  were  married  to  a  wreath,  or  a  lyre." 

Any  one  save  Pelleas  and  me  would  have  been 
discouraged,  but  we  are  more  than  seventy  years 
old  and  we  understand  the  value  of  the  quality  of 
a  man's  indifference.  Moreover,  we  believed  that 
Hobart  had  a  heart  both  cold  and  hot  but  that  the 
cold  side  is  always  turned  toward  the  sun. 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "but  Viola  Chartres  is  another 
matter.  She  makes  one  wish  to  fall  in  love  with  a 
wreath,  or  a  lyre." 

"A  man  always  ought,"  Hobart  impersonally 
continued,  "to  marry  a  woman  named  Elizabeth 
Strong  Davis  or  the  like.  Something  that  sounds 
primal  —  and  finished.  A  sort  of  ballast-and-an- 
chor  name  that  one  might  say  over  in  exigencies,  like 
a  golden  text." 

"Ah,  well,  now,  I  don't  know,"  Pelleas  submitted 
mildly,  "'Etarre'  sounds  like  Camelot  and  Astolat 


60     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

and  Avalon  and  so  on  to  any  number  of  unrealities. 
But  it  seems  like  a  golden  text  to  me." 

I  wonder  that  I  could  pursue  my  fixed  purpose, 
that  was  so  charming  to  hear.  Perhaps  it  is  that  I 
have  partly  learned  to  keep  a  purpose  through 
charming  things  as  well  as  through  difficulties,  though 
this  is  twofold  as  hard  to  do. 

"Women's  names  are  wonderful  things,"  Hobart 
Eddy  was  going  tranquilly  on.  "They  seem  to  be 
alive  —  to  have  life  on  their  own  account.  I  can 
say  over  a  name  —  or  I  think  I  could  say  over  a 
name,"  he  corrected  it,  "to  myself,  and  aloud,  until 
it  seemed  Somebody  there  with  me." 

I  looked  at  him  swiftly.  Did  he  mean  that  there 
was  for  him  some  such  name  ?  Or  did  he  merely 
mean  that  he  might  mean  something,  other  things 
being  equal  ? 

"That  would  be  a  good  test,"  he  added,  "for 
one  who  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  whether  he 
was  in  love.  And  it  would  be  a  new  and  decora 
tive  branch  of  phonology.  Why  doesn't  phonology," 
he  inquired  reasonably,  "take  up  some  of  these 
wonderful  things  instead  of  harking  back  to  be 
ginnings  ?" 

"Precisely,"   said   I  tenaciously,  "and  Viola — " 

"'Who  is  Viola?     What  is  she 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? ' " 

he  adapted,  smiling. 


THE  PATH  OF  IN-THE-SPRING  61 

"I've  wondered,"  said  I  gravely,  "that  you 
haven't  asked  that  of  yourself  before." 

But  having  now  effectually  introduced  the  matter 
I  looked  about  me  helplessly.  What  were  we  to 
say  to  Hobart  Eddy  ?  To  have  embroidered  a 
message  with  silks  and  cottons  would  have  been 
a  simple  matter;  but  it  is  difficult  to  speak  heart's- 
ease  and  rue.  Moreover,  it  is  absurd  to  impart 
one's  theory  of  life  without  an  invitation.  Some 
times  even  by  invitation  it  is  absurd.  If  only 
one  might  embroider  it,  now !  Or  if  one  might 
merely  indicate  it,  as  Pelleas  had  said  of  the  "Bird 
Book :  Part  Two,"  for  keeping  alive  the  thrill  of 
a  thing.  .  .  . 

At  that  our  morning  was  back  upon  me,  with 
its  moment  that  was  like  revelation  and  prophecy 
and  belief.  Yet  how  to  give  to  Hobart  Eddy  in 
effect :  A  momentary  knowledge  that  there  is  more 
about  a  bird  and  about  what  he  is  and  about  what  we 
are  than  one  commonly  supposes.  How  to  tell  him 
that  some  gracious  purpose  —  like  winning  the  love 
of  Viola  —  would  teach  the  secret  ?  I  longed  un 
speakably,  and  so,  I  know,  did  Pelleas,  to  be  to  him 
a  "  restorer  of  paths  to  dwell  in "  —  a  restorer  of 
the  path  of  In-the-Spring  which  we  feared  that  he 
had  long  lost.  Though,  indeed,  how  should  one 
ever  lose  that  path  which  runs  to  the  end  of  the 
world  ?  I  looked  at  Pelleas  and  surprised  him  in 


62  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

the  midst  of  the  merest  glance  at  me.  And  when 
he  spoke  I  knew  that  he  understood. 

"Hobart,"  said  he,  "the  grosbeaks  are  here.  We 
saw  them  this  morning." 

Hobart  Eddy  nodded  with  an  air  of  polite  concern. 
"The  Grosbeaks?"  he  said  over,  uncertainly.  "Do 
—  do  I  know  them  ?  I  am  so  deuced  forgetful." 

"Ah,  well,  now,"  said  Pelleas,  "I  don't  know  that 
they  are  on  your  list.  But  you  are  on  theirs,  if  you 
care  to  be.  I  suggest  that  you  make  their  acquaint 
ance.  They're  birds." 

Hobart  looked  startled.  But  Pelleas  enjoys  as 
much  as  any  one  being  momentarily  misunderstood 
and  he  smiled  back  at  Hobart  as  if  he  were  proud 
of  his  idiom. 

"I  must  get  you  to  present  me,"  Hobart  seriously 
murmured. 

"Do,"  Pelleas  said  with  enjoyment.  "Come 
over  in  the  park  with  us  any  day  now  —  though  May 
and  June  are  rather  better.  I  never  knew  them 
come  up  from  the  South  so  early.  Splendid  family 
and  all  that,"  Pelleas  added;  "Zamelodia  Ludo- 
viciana,  you  know.  Charming  connections." 

"O,  I  say,"  said  Hobart,  "what  a  jolly  idiot  I 
am !  I  thought  you  were  in  earnest,  you  know." 

"I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  my  life,"  Pelleas 
protested.  "  You  really  must  see  them.  Little  brown 
lady-bird  with  her  gold  under  her  wings.  Male 


THE   PATH   OF   IN-THE-SPRING  63 

with  a  glorious  rose  all  over  his  breast  and  a  song  — 
Hobart,  you  should  hear  his  song.  It's  a  little  like 
a  robin's  song,  but  all  trilled  out  and  tucked  in 
and  done  in  doubles  and  triplets  and  burrs  —  and 
a  question  at  the  end.  You  never  heard  one  sing  at 
night  ?  You  never  went  over  in  the  park  or  out  in 
the  country  to  hear  them  sing  at  night  ?  Etarre  — 
do  show  him  how  it  goes." 

I  have  a  fancy  for  singing  the  bird  notes  that  we 
love  and  Pelleas,  who  could  as  easily  hem  a  thing 
as  to  sing  it,  will  in  Spring  keep  me  all  hours  at  this 
pastime.  Once  he  woke  me  in  the  night  to  reclaim 
the  song  of  the  orchard  oriole  —  and  next  morning 
Nichola  sorely  discomfited  me  by  observing  that  long 
after  midnight  she  had  heard  owls  in  the  chimney. 
But  we  persist  in  the  delight  and  so  now  I  sang  for 
Hobart  the  song  of  the  grosbeak :  — 


it  goes,"  said  I,  "but  the  next  one  you  hear  may  be 
quite  —  quite  different !  There  is  no  tune  to  the 
song,  ever  —  but  exquisite  rhythm.  O,  and  such 
arch  anxiety  he  is  in,  Hobart;  you  cannot  think. 
And  when  he  is  done  you've  got  to  believe  the  way 
he  does  because  of  his  little  question  which  is  never 
'Do  you  think?'  but  always  'Don't  you  think?' 
Fancy  your  never  having  heard  him." 


64     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

"I  say,  you  know,"  said  Hobart,  enthusiastically, 
"I'd  like  to  hear  him,  most  awfully." 

"O  you  would  —  you  would,"  I  agreed,  and 
could  say  no  more.  In  Spring  my  heart  is  always 
aching  for  the  busy  and  the  self-absorbed  who  do 
not  seize  opera  glasses  and  post  away  to  some  place 
of  trees. 

Pelleas  was  fumbling  in  his  portmonnaie. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  beaming;  "this  is  the  list 
of  the  birds  that  we  have  seen  this  Spring.  And  we 
have  not  once  stepped  outside  town,  either." 

Hobart  took  our  list  and  knitted  his  brows  over  it. 

"I  know  robins  and  bluebirds,"  he  claimed 
proudly. 

Pelleas  nodded.  "They  are  very  nearly  our  dear 
est,"  he  said,  "like  daisies  and  buttercups.  But  we 
love  the  others,  too  —  the  rose  and  orchid  and 
gardenia  birds,  Hobart.  The  grosbeaks  and  orioles 
and  tanagers.  You  can't  think  what  a  pleasure  it  is 
to  see  them  come  back  one  after  another,  as  true 
to  their  dates  as  the  stars  —  only  now  and  then  a  bit 
earlier,  for  spice.  The  society  columns  in  November 
are  nothing  in  comparison  —  though  of  course  they 
do  very  well.  Yes,  it's  quite  like  seeing  the  stars 
come  back  every  year.  Etarre  and  I  go  to  the  park 
after  breakfast  for  the  birds  and  to  the  roof  of  the 
house  after  dinner  for  the  stars.  March  and  April 
are  wonderful  months  for  the  constellations." 


THE   PATH   OF  IN-THE-SPRING  65 

"O  yes,"  said  Hobart  Eddy,  "yes.  The  Great 
Dipper  and  the  North  star  and  the  Pleiades.  I 
always  know  those/' 

He  was  still  holding  the  list,  and  Pelleas  leaned 
forward  and  tapped  on  it,  his  face  sparkling. 

"Hobart,"  he  said,  "give  us  a  day  next  week. 
Let  us  leave  home  at  six  in  the  morning  and  get  out 
in  the  real  country  and  walk  in  the  fields.  We'll 
undertake  to  show  you  the  birds  of  this  entire  list ! 
The  hermit  thrushes  should  be  here  by  then  —  and  I 
don't  know  but  the  wood  pewees  and  the  orioles,  the 
season  is  so  early.  And  of  course  no  end  of  the 
warbler  family.  We  will  all  take  glasses  and  Etarre 
shall  give  us  the  bird  songs  and  I  dare  say  we'll  see 
some  nests.  In  the  middle  of  the  day  we'll  hunt 
flowers  —  I  could  have  been  certain  that  I  saw  violet 
columbine  a  bit  back  on  this  road.  And  by  next 
week  we  won't  be  able  to  step  for  the  rue  anemone 
and  the  hepatica.  You  wouldn't  mind  not  picking 
them,  Hobart?"  asked  Pelleas,  anxiously.  "We're 
rather  extreme  when  it  comes  to  that,  and  we  don't 
pick  them,  you  know.  You  wouldn't  mind  that,  I 
dare  say  ?" 

Hobart  Eddy  said :  No.  That  he  should  not  mind 
that. 

"And  then  after  dark  we'll  start  home,"  Pelleas 
went  on,  "but  long  enough  after  dark  so  that  we 
can  walk  on  some  open  road  and  see  the  stars. 


66  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Orion  will  be  done  for  by  then,"  he  recalled  frown 
ing.  "Orion  and  Jupiter  are  about  below  the  west 
by  dark  even  now.  But  Leo  is  overhead  —  and  the 
Dragon  and  Cassiopeia  in  the  north  —  and  Spica 
and  Vega  and  Arcturus  in  the  east.  O,  we  shall 
have  friends  enough.  It  is  now/'  said  Pelleas, 
"forty-nine  years  that  Etarre  and  I  have  watched 
for  them  every  year.  We  began  to  study  them  the 
Summer  that  we  were  married.  Forty-nine  years 
and  they  have  never  failed  us  once.  What  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

Hobart  folded  our  list  and  handed  it  back. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  solemnly,  "that  I 
wouldn't  know  whether  Hepatica  was  a  bird  or 
a  constellation  ?  Jove,"  he  added,  "what  a  lot  of 
worlds." 

As  for  me  I  sat  nodding  with  all  my  might.  Yes, 
what  a  lot  of  worlds. 

"Will  you  give  us  a  day,  Hobart?"  Pelleas  re 
peated. 

"With  all  my  heart,"  Hobart  Eddy  said  simply. 

"We'll  take  Viola  with  us  !"  I  cried  then  joyfully. 
"She  knows  all  these  things  better  than  we." 

"She  does  ?"  exclaimed  Hobart.  "At  her  age  ?  I 
believe  they  have  actually  begun  to  educate  people 
for  living,"  he  observed,  "instead  of  for  earning  a 
living.  I  dare  say  lots  of  people  know  this  kind  of 
thing  —  people  in  cafes  and  cars  and  around,  whom 


THE   PATH  OF   IN-THE-SPRING  67 

one  never  suspects  of  knowing,"  he  added  thought 
fully. 

Pelleas  and  I  have  sometimes  said  that  of  the  most 
unpromising  people :  Perhaps  after  all  they  know 
the  birds  and  wait  for  the  stars  to  come  back.  Not 
that  this  would  prove  them  good  citizens.  But 
neither  do  the  most  utilitarian  faculties  prove  them  so. 

"I  could  fall  in  love  with  any  woman  who  was 
so  accomplished,"  said  Pelleas,  looking  at  Hobart 
and  pretending  to  mean  me. 

"By  Jove,  so  could  I!"  said  Hobart,  looking  at 
me  openly. 

"Why,  then,"  said  I  at  this,  meeting  his  eyes 
fairly,  "I  think  that  we  may  as  well  hurry  on  to 
Inglese." 

He  understood,  and  smiled  at  us. 

"You  dear  fairy  god-people,"  he  said. 

But  I  hugged  our  hope  as  we  rolled  away;  and  so, 
I  know,  did  Pelleas. 

No  one  was  on  the  veranda  at  the  Chartres  villa, 
and  we  had  seen  no  one  in  the  grounds  save  a  man 
or  two  working  miracles  by  unwrapping  rose-trees. 
Madame  Sally  Chartres,  the  servant  told  us,  was 
gone  in  the  town,  and  Miss  Viola  was  walking  by 
the  lake.  We  would  not  have  her  summoned  and 
Hobart,  Pelleas,  and  I  went  down  the  slope  of  early 
green  to  the  lake  walk. 


68  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

The  day  was  mounting  to  noon.  A  Summer  day 
will  miss  its  high-tide  expression  because  peace  falls 
on  it  at  noon;  but  the  high  noon  of  Spring  is  the 
very  keystone  of  the  bow  from  sun  to  sun.  I  re 
member  once  dreaming  of  music  which  grew  more 
beautiful  and  came  nearer,  until  I  knew  as  I  woke 
that  I  could  bear  it  no  longer  and  that  another  mo 
ment  would  have  freed  me.  And, 

"Pelleas  and  Hobart,"  I  said  now,  "if  to-day  gets 
any  lovelier,  I  think  that  none  of  us  can  bear  it  and 
that  the  bubble  will  burst  and  we  shall  be  let  out." 

For  I  love  to  seem  a  little  mad  for  the  sake  of  the 
contrast  of  my  own  knowledge  that  I  am  sane. 

"On  a  day  like  this,"  said  Pelleas,  "one  hardly 
knows  whether  one  is  living  it  or  reading  it." 

"If  we  are  reading  it,"  said  I,  seeming  to  glance 
at  Hobart  Eddy,  "I  hope  that  it  will  turn  out  to 
be  a  love  story." 

And  it  did  —  it  did.  We  followed  the  curve  of  the 
walk  past  some  flowering  bushes  and  came  on  a 
bench,  the  kind  of  bench  that  rises  from  the  ground 
at  the  mere  footfall  of  two  lovers.  And  there  sat 
Viola,  quite  twice  as  lovely  as  when  she  had  spent 
that  week  before  our  telephone  on  the  landing,  and 
beside  her  a  Boy  whose  role  no  one  who  saw  his  face 
could  doubt. 

She  was  very  lovely  as  she  rose  to  greet  us  —  in 
deed,  Viola  was  one  of  those  who  prove  the  pro- 


THE   PATH   OF   IN-THE-SPRING  69 

cession  of  the  wild  things  and  the  stars  to  be  an 
integral  part  of  life.  But  now  for  her  a  new  star 
had  risen  whose  magnitude  was  unquestionable. 

"Aunt  Etarre !"  cried  Viola.  "O,  I  am  so  glad  to 
have  you  and  Uncle  Pelleas  and  Hobart  know  — 
first." 

And  when  she  had  presented  her  fine  young  lover 
and  I  had  taken  her  in  my  arms,  "You  know,"  she 
murmured,  "he  is  your  telephone,  dear.  Do  you 
remember  Uncle  Pelleas  calling  him  Telephone?" 

Indeed,  I  do  not  think  that  we  caught  his  real  name 
that  morning  at  all.  And  as  for  Pelleas  and  me,  who 
are  the  first  to  love  a  lover,  we  found  ourselves  in 
stant  partisans  of  that  fine  young  telephone  of  ours, 
so  to  speak,  now  that  we  finally  saw  him  face  to  face. 
And  I  remember  noting  with  a  reminiscent  thrill 
that  the  flowering  shrub  beneath  which  we  were 
standing  was  Forsythia;  and  so  did  Pelleas,  who  is 
delighted  with  coincidences  and  hears  in  them  the 
motifs  of  the  commonplace. 

"I  told  you  this  morning,  Etarre,  that  something 
pleasant  was  about  to  happen,"  he  said  with  satisfac 
tion. 

"And  so  it  has,"  said  I  happily  —  and  met 
Hobart  Eddy's  eyes,  fixed  on  mine  and  quite  uncon 
trollably  dancing. 

On  which  I  fell  guiltily  silent,  and  so  did  Pelleas. 
It  is  one  of  the  hardships  of  life  that  it  is  impossible 


70  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

to  grieve  with  the  loser  and  rejoice  with  the  winner 
of  the  same  cause. 

When,  some  time  after  we  five  had  lunched  alone 
on  the  veranda,  Viola  and  Our  Telephone  waved  our 
car  down  the  drive,  Pelleas  and  I  were  not  less  dis 
posed  to  silence.  Running  slowly  through  the 
grounds  Hobart  Eddy  glanced  back  at  us,  and, 

"Well?"  he  asked  gravely. 

Pelleas  and  I  looked  away  over  the  lawns  and  said 
nothing. 

"You've  still  got  me  on  your  hands,  fairy  god- 
people,"  said  Hobart,  and  smiled  angelically  and 
quite  without  a  shadow  in  his  eyes. 

"I  know,"  muttered  Pelleas  then;  "we  seem  to  be 
miserable  at  this  kind  of  thing." 

And  it  did  seem  as  if  the  path  of  In-the-Spring  had 
eluded  us. 

Suddenly,  with  a  great  wrench,  Hobart  brought  the 
car  to  a  standstill.  "  Look  !  Look  there  !  By  Jove, 
there  it  is !  Look  at  it  go ! "  he  cried  like  a  boy. 
"What  is  it — O,  I  say,  do  you  know  what  it  is  ?" 

We,  too,  had  seen  it  —  the  joyous  rise  and  curve  of 
the  wing  of  a  scarlet  tanager,  flashing  into  flight, 
skimming  a  lawn,  burning  from  the  bough  of  a  far 
sycamore. 

"A  tanager!"  cried  Pelleas  and  I  together,  and 
caught  a  moment  of  its  song  —  its  open,  double-toned, 


THE   PATH   OF   IN-THE-SPRING  71 

two-note  and  three-note  song,  a  serene  cradle  mel 
ody  borrowed  from  May. 

"O,  Jove !"  said  Hobart  Eddy.     "Hear  him/' 

In  the  reeds  by  the  lake  the  song  sparrows  were 
singing  —  we  heard  these  too.  But  I  think  that 
Pelleas  and  I  heard  chiefly  another  voice  which  for 
the  first  time  Hobart  Eddy  was  hearing. 

"What  day  next  week  could  we  go  in  the  country, 
do  you  think?"  Hobart  asked  as  he  started  the  car. 

"Monday,"  suggested  Pelleas  promptly. 

He  had  out  his  portmonnaie  and  the  bird  list  and 
I  saw  what  he  wrote :  — 

April  29 :  Scarlet  tanager.      Etarre  and  Hobart  and  Pelleas. 
And  across  the  page:  — 

Part  Two :  Scarlet  Tanager  day :  Spent  all  day  In  the  path 
of  I n-t he-Spring. 


IV 

THE    ELOPEMENT 

THE  next  morning  Pelleas  and  I  sat  before  our 
drawing-room  fire  talking  over  our  amazing  trip 
to  Inglese. 

"In  that  love  affair  of  yesterday,"  Pelleas  said 
sadly,  "we  were  good  for  absolutely  nothing." 

"Ah,  well,  now,"  I  protested  feebly,  "we  chaper 
oned." 

"Chaperons,"  Pelleas  said  sententiously,  "are 
nothing,  per  se.  Chaperons  are  merely  the  evidence 
that  everything  is  not  seen." 

"At  least,"  said  I,  "that  arietta  of  the  Inutile 
Precauzione  gives  great  charm  to  'The  Barber." 

"I  know,"  Pelleas  assented;  "so  does  the  property 
man.  But  I  should  like  us  to  be  really  good  for 
something  on  our  own  account.  In  some  pleasant 
affair  or  other  —  I  don't  greatly  care  what." 

I  looked  out  the  window  at  New  York. 

"Think,"  said  I,  "of  all  the  people  out  there  who 
are  in  love  and  who  absolutely  need  our  help." 

"It  is  shocking,"  Pelleas  assented  gravely.  "I 
could  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  advertise.  How 

72 


THE   ELOPEMENT  73 

should  we  word  it  ?  '  Pelleas  and  Etarre,  Promoters 
of  Love  Stones  Unlimited.  Office  Hours  from  Time 
to  Eternity  — " 

He  broke  off  smiling,  but  not  at  any  fancied  im- 
practicality. 

"Why  not?"  said  I.  "The  world  needs  us.  You 
yourself  said  that  the  world  is  the  shape  of  a  dollar 
instead  of  a  heart." 

"Ah,  I'm  not  so  sure,  though,"  Pelleas  returned 
with  an  air  of  confidence.  "We  don't  know  the  ways 
of  the  North  Pole.  Perhaps  we  shall  yet  find  that 
the  world  is  the  shape  of  a  heart." 

"At  all  events,"  said  I,  "we  can  act  as  if  it  were. 
And  no  one  now  can  possibly  prove  the  contrary." 

How  would  one  act  if  the  world  were  the  shape 
of  a  heart  ?  I  was  considering  this  seriously  when, 
five  minutes  later,  I  selected  with  especial  care  a 
book  to  take  to  the  park.  I  was  going  over  alone 
that  morning,  for  Pelleas  was  obliged  to  be  down 
town.  This  happens  about  three  times  a  year,  but 
the  occasions  are  very  important  and  Nichola  and 
I  make  a  vast  ado  over  his  departure  and  we  fuss 
about  until  he  pretends  distraction,  though  we  well 
know  how  flattered  he  is.  Nichola  even  runs  after 
him  on  the  street  with  a  newspaper  to  be  read  on  the 
elevated,  though  we  are  all  three  perfectly  aware 
that  even  with  both  pairs  of  spectacles  he  cannot 
possibly  read  on  the  jolting  car.  But  he  folds  the 


74  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

paper  and  thanks  Nichola  and,  as  I  believe,  sits  with 
the  paper  spread  before  him  all  the  way  to  Hanover 
Square. 

On  that  particular  morning  Pelleas  left  very  early, 
and  I  arrived  in  the  park  when  it  was  not  yet  a 
playground  and  a  place  for  loitering  but  a  busy  cause 
way  for  the  first  pedestrians.  I  found  a  favourite 
bench  near  a  wilding  mass  of  Forsythia,  with  a  curve 
of  walk  and  a  cherry-tree  in  sight.  There  I  sat  with 
my  closed  book  —  for  in  the  park  of  a  Spring  morn 
ing  one  need  never  open  one's  book  providing  only 
that  the  book  shall  have  been  perfectly  selected.  I 
remember  that  Pelleas  once  took  down,  as  he  sup 
posed,  a  volume  of  well-beloved  essays  to  carry  with 
us  and  when  we  reached  the  park  we  found  by  ac 
cident  that  we  had  brought  a  doctor's  book  instead. 
It  was  such  a  glad  morning  that  we  had  not  intended 
to  read,  but  we  were  both  miserable  until  Pelleas 
went  back  to  exchange  it.  I  cannot  tell  how  we 
knew  but  certain  voices  refused  to  sing  in  the  pres 
ence  of  that  musty,  fusty  volume.  When  he  had 
returned  with  the  well-beloved  book  they  all  drew 
near  at  once.  Therefore  we  will  not  go  even  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  jonquil  beds  with  a  stupid 
author. 

But  on  this  morning  of  Spring  my  book  was  in 
tune  and  all  the  voices  sang,  so  that  they  and  the  sun 
and  the  procession  of  soft  odours  almost  lulled  me 


THE   ELOPEMENT  75 

asleep.  You  young  who  wonder  why  the  very  dead 
do  not  awake  in  Spring,  let  me  say  that  one  has  only 
to  be  seventy  to  understand  peace  even  in  May. 

I  was  awakened  by  the  last  thing  which,  awake  or 
asleep,  one  would  expect  to  hear  on  such  a  morning; 
a  sound  which  was  in  fact  an  act  of  high  treason 
to  be  tried  in  a  court  of  daffodils.  It  was  a  sob. 

I  opened  my  eyes  with  a  start,  expecting  that  a 
good  fairy  had  planted  some  seeds  which  by  having 
failed  to  come  up  on  the  instant  had  made  her 
petulant.  The  sob,  however,  proceeded  from  a 
very  human  Little  Nursemaid  who  sat  at  the 
extreme  end  of  my  bench,  crying  her  eyes  out. 
I  could  not  see  her  face  but  her  exquisitely  neat 
blue  gown  and  crisp  white  cap,  cuffs  and  apron 
were  a  delight.  She  had  a  fresh  pink  drawn 
through  her  belt.  Both  plump  hands  were  over 
her  eyes  and  she  was  crying  to  break  her  heart. 
Her  Little  Charge  sat  solemnly  by  in  a  go-cart, 
regarding  her,  and  dangling  a  pet  elephant  by 
one  leg.  The  elephant,  I  may  add,  presented  a 
very  singular  appearance  through  having  lost  large 
patches  of  its  cloth  and  having  been  mended  by  graft 
ing  on  selections  from  the  outside  of  some  woolly  sheep. 

I  was  in  doubt  what  to  do;  but  when  I  am  not  sure 
about  offering  my  sympathy  I  always  scan  the  vic 
tim  to  see  whether  she  shows  any  signs  of  "niceness." 
If  she  does  I  know  that  my  sympathy  will  not 


76  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

come  amiss.  The  sight  of  that  fresh  pink  determined 
me:  Little  Nursemaid  was  "nice." 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "what  is  it?" 

This  sounds  as  if  I  have  no  dignity.  I  have,  up 
to  the  moment  that  some  one  cries,  and  then  I 
maintain  that  dignity  loses  its  point.  There  is  a 
perfectly  well-bred  dignity  which  has  hurt  more 
hearts  than  ever  sympathy  has  bound  up,  but  you 
do  not  learn  that  until  you  are  seventy  and  then 
no  one  listens  to  what  you  have  learned. 

Little  Nursemaid  showed  me  one  eye,  blue  as  her 
gown. 

"Nothink,  ma'am,"  she  said  shamelessly,  and  fell 
to  sobbing  anew. 

"Nonsense,"  said  I  gently,  "you  are  not  crying 
for  nothing,  are  you  ? " 

Think  of  the  times  that  all  the  women  in  the  world 
require  to  have  that  said  to  them. 

Little  Charge  whimpered  slightly  as  if  to  say  that 
he  could  cry  all  day  if  he  chose,  and  only  be  scolded 
for  his  pains.  He  was  doubtless  justly  aggrieved 
at  my  sympathy  for  a  performance  borrowed  from 
his  own  province.  Little  Nursemaid  pushed  the 
go-cart  with  her  foot,  such  a  trim  little  well-shod 
foot,  without  openwork  stockings. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  urged  with  even  more  per 
suasiveness.  "Perhaps  I  could  help  you,  you  know." 

She  shook  her  head.     No;  nobody  could  help  her. 


THE   ELOPEMENT  77 

"Is  it  that  some  one  is  dead  ?"  I  asked. 

No;   no  one  was  dead. 

"Well,  then!"  I  exclaimed  triumphantly,  "that 
is  all  I  need  to  know.  Tell  me  —  and  we  can  do 
something,  at  any  rate." 

Bit  by  bit  she  told  me,  pulling  at  her  trim  little 
cuffs,  twirling  the  head  of  the  pink,  rolling  the  go- 
cart  until  Little  Charge  smiled  as  upon  an  unex 
pectedly  beneficent  world. 

And  the  trouble  was  —  how,  I  wondered  as  1  lis 
tened,  could  I  ever  have  doubted  that  the  world  is 
the  shape  of  a  heart  —  the  trouble  was  that  Little 
Nursemaid  had  intended  to  elope  that  very  day,  and 
now  she  couldn't ! 

Cornelia  Emmeline  Ayres,  for  so  she  subsequently 
told  me  that  she  was  called,  was  by  her  own  admis 
sion  pathetically  situated. 

"I  am  a  orphan  nursemaid,  ma'am,"  she  con 
fessed,  shaking  her  brown  head  in  pleasant  self-pity. 

Briefly,  she  was  living  with  a  well-to-do  family 
just  off  the  avenue,  who  had  cared  for  her  mother  in 
her  last  illness  and  had  taken  charge  of  Cornelia 
herself  when  she  was  a  child.  She  had  grown  up  in 
the  family  as  that  most  pitiful  of  all  creatures,  an 
unpaid  dependant,  who  is  supposed  to  have  all  the 
advantages  of  a  home  and  in  reality  has  only  its  dis 
comforts.  Until  a  year  ago  the  life  of  the  little  maid 
had  been  colourless  enough,  and  then  the  Luminous 


78  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Inevitable  happened.  He  was  a  young  drug  clerk. 
He  had  had  two  "rises  "of  salary  within  seven  months, 
probably,  I  surmised,  averaging  some  seventy-five 
cents  each.  And  she  had  fourteen  dollars  of  her  own. 

"Well,  well,"  said  I  in  bewilderment,  "what  more 
do  you  want  ?  Why  wait  ?" 

"Oh,  ma'am,"  sobbed  Cornelia  Emmeline,  "it's 
the  unthankfulness  I'm  bothered  about.  Why,  She 
raised  me  an'  I  just  can't  a-bear  to  leave  Her  like 
this." 

"What  does  She  say  about  it  ?"  I  inquired,  gather 
ing  from  the  reverential  tone  of  the  pronoun  that  the 
Shrewd  Benefactress  was  in  her  mind.  O,  these 
women  whose  charity  takes  the  form  of  unpaid  ser 
vants  who  have  "homes"  in  return. 

"That's  just  it,  ma'am.  She  won't  hear  to  it," 
said  Cornelia  Emmeline  sadly.  "She  says  I'm  too 
young  to  have  the  care  of  a  home." 

I  looked  at  the  stout  proportions  of  Little  Charge 
who  had  to  be  carried  and  lifted  all  day. 

"So  you  planned  to  elope?"  I  tempted  her  on. 
"And  why  didn't  you  ?" 

Then  her  heart  overflowed. 

"We  was  to  go  to  the  church  to-night,"  she  sobbed. 
"  Evan,  he  told  the  m-m-minister,  an'  I  was  goin'  to 
wear  my  new  p-p-plum-colour'  dress,  an'  it  was 
a-goin'  to  be  at  six-fifteen.  Evan  has  a  hour  off  at 
six.  An'  th-then  th-this  morning  She  gimme  a 


THE   ELOPEMENT  79 

bright  fifty  cents  an'  a  watered  ribbin  —  an'  O, 
ma'am,  I  just  can't  a-bear  to  go  an'  do  it !" 

So  —  Benefactress  was  even  shrewder  than  I  had 
thought. 

"Have  you  told  him  ?"  I  asked,  feeling  with  Evan 
the  hopelessness  of  competing  with  "a  bright  fifty 
cents  an'  a  watered  ribbin." 

She  nodded  speechlessly  for  a  moment. 

"Jus'  now,"  she  burst  out  finally.  "I  went  to  the 
drug  store  an'  told  him.  He  d-d-didnt'  say  a  word, 
but  he  jus'  went  on  makin'  a  egg-phosphate,  in  a 
heartbroke  way,  for  a  ole  gentleman.  He  never 
1-1-looked  at  me  again." 

I  sat  in  sad  silence  going  over  the  principal  points 
of  the  narrative.  Nothing  makes  me  so  sorrowful 
as  the  very  ordinary  sight  of  two  young  lovers  juggling 
with  their  future.  There  are  so  few  chances  for 
happiness  in  every  life,  "and  that  hardly,"  and  yet 
upon  these  irreverent  hands  are  constantly  laid,  and 
all  the  hues  despoiled.  Thereafter  the  two  despoilers 
are  wont  to  proclaim  happiness  a  bubble.  I  do  not 
know  if  that  be  true,  but  say  that  it  is  a  bubble.  Is  it 
not  better  to  have  so  luminous  a  thing  ever  trem 
bling  over  one's  head  than  to  see,  through  one's  tears, 
its  fragments  float  away  ?  If  happiness  be  a  bubble, 
Pelleas  and  I  know  of  one  that  has  outlasted  many  a 
stouter  element  and  will  last  to  the  end.  Yet  what 
can  Seventy  say  of  this  to  Seventeen  ?  It  can  only 


8o     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

wring  its  hands,  and  Seventeen  has  but  one  answer: 
"But  this  is  different!"  I  could  have  shaken  Cor 
nelia  Emmeline  had  it  not  been  for  our  brief  ac 
quaintance. 

As  I  sat  considering  this  and  pulling  at  the  fringe 
of  my  reticule,  the  last  words  that  she  had  spoken 
began  to  assert  themselves  with  a  vague,  new  sig 
nificance. 

"He  d-d-didn't  say  a  word,  but  he  jus'  went  on 
makin'  a  egg-phosphate,  in  a  heartbroke  way, 
for  a  ole  gentleman,"  she  had  said.  My  atten 
tion  had  been  so  fixed  on  the  image  of  Evan 
behind  the  counter  that  a  supreme  coincidence  had 
escaped  me. 

I  touched  Cornelia  Emmeline's  arm  —  I  have 
dignity,  I  repeat,  but  not  in  the  face  of  such  a 
sorrow  as  this. 

"What  drug  store?"  I  inquired. 

There  was  only  one  in  the  world  for  her,  so  she 
knew  what  I  meant. 

"How  long  ago  were  you  there  to  tell  him?"  I 
asked  next,  breathlessly. 

Cornelia  Emmeline  thought  that  it  might  have 
been  a  matter  of  twenty  minutes. 

"The  very  same!"  I  cried,  and  fell  to  smiling  at 
Little  Nursemaid  in  a  fashion  that  would  have 
bewildered  her  had  she  not  been  so  occupied  in 
wiping  her  eyes. 


THE   ELOPEMENT  8l 

For  who  in  the  world  should  be  the  old  gentleman 
of  the  egg-phosphate  but  Pelleas  ? 

Had  I  not,  morning  after  morning,  waited  in  that 
very  drug  store,  amusing  myself  before  a  glass  case 
of  chest-protectors  while  Pelleas  drank  his  egg- 
phosphate  which  he  loathed  ?  And  so  that  hand 
some,  curly-headed,  long-lashed  youngster  who  fizzed 
and  bubbled  among  his  delicacies  with  such  dexterity 
was  none  other  than  Evan  !  Why,  indeed,  he  was  a 
friend  of  Pelleas'.  Pelleas  had  given  him  a  red  muf 
fler  of  his  own  only  last  Christmas. 

I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  what  I  call  the 
quality  of  making  mental  ends  meet  when  you  ought 
to  be  concerned  with  soberer  matters.  For  myself, 
being  a  very  idle  and  foolish  and  meddlesome  old 
woman,  I  can  not  only  make  them  meet  but  I 
can  tie  them  into  bowknots,  veritable  love  knots. 
And  so  I  did  now,  sitting  there  on  the  bench 
in  the  sunshine  with  the  fragrance  of  Forsythia 
and  cherry  blossoms  about,  and  my  eyes  fixed  on 
the  all-wool  elephant  of  Little  Charge.  And  yet, 
remembering  now,  I  disown  that  plan;  for  I  pro 
test  that  it  came  pealing  to  me  from  some  secret 
bell  in  the  air  —  and  what  could  I,  a  most  unwise 
and  helpless  old  woman,  do  against  such  magic  ? 
And  how  else  could  one  act  —  in  a  world  the  shape 
of  a  heart  ? 

"Don't  you  want  to  tell  me,"  said  I  shyly,  "ho\v 


82  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

you  had  planned  your  elopement  ?     It  will   do   no 
harm  to  talk  about  it,  at  any  rate." 

Little  Nursemaid  liked  to  talk  about  it.  With 
many  a  sob  and  sigh  she  brought  forth  her  poor  little 
plans,  made  with  such  trembling  delight  and  all 
come  to  naught.  They  were  to  have  met  that  very 
night  at  precisely  quarter-past  six  at  the  door  of  a 
chapel  that  I  knew  well.  The  curate  had  been  en 
gaged  by  Evan,  and  a  "little  couple  "who  lived  over 
the  drug  store  were  to  be  witnesses.  The  new  plum- 
colour'  dress  figured  extensively  and  repeatedly  in 
the  account.  Then  they  were  to  have  marched 
straight  and  boldly  to  the  Benefactress  and  pro 
claimed  their  secret,  and  Evan  was  to  have  been 
back  behind  the  counter  at  seven  o'clock,  while  Cor 
nelia  Emmeline  would  have  been  in  time  to  put 
Little  Charge  to  bed,  as  usual.  The  remainder  of 
their  lives,  so  far  as  I  could  determine,  did  not  enter 
importantly  into  the  transaction.  The  main  thing 
was  to  be  married. 

And  all  this  bright  castle  had  toppled  down  before 
the  onslaught  of  "a  bright  fifty  cents  an'  a  watered 
ribbin."  Ah,  Cornelia  Emmeline!  Yet  she  truly 
loved  him  —  mark  you,  if  I  had  not  believed  in  that 
I  would  have  left  her  to  the  solitary  company  of  Little 
Charge  and  the  all-wool  elephant.  But  since  I  did 
believe  in  that  I  could  not  see  those  two  dear  little 
people  make  a  mess  of  everything. 


THE   ELOPEMENT  83 

"It  is  too  bad,"  said  I  innocently,  "and  let  me 
tell  you  what  I  suggest.  You'll  be  very  lonely  to 
night  about  six  o'clock  —  and  you  will  probably  cry 
and  be  asked  questions.  Don't  you  want  to  run  down 
to  my  house  for  a  few  minutes  to  help  me  ?  I  have 
something  most  important  to  do." 

I  had  much  trouble  to  keep  from  laughing  at  that 
"something  most  important  to  do." 

Cornelia  Emmeline  promised  readily  and  grate 
fully.  She  had  always  that  hour  to  herself,  it  ap 
peared,  because  then  He  came  home  —  the  husband 
of  Benefactress,  I  inferred  —  and  wanted  Little 
Charge  to  himself  before  dinner.  That  was  such  a 
pleasant  circumstance  that  I  began  to  feel  kindly 
toward  even  the  Shrewd  Benefactress  and  "Him." 
But  I  did  not  relent.  I  made  Cornelia  Emmeline 
promise,  and  I  saw  that  she  had  my  card  tucked  away 
for  safe-keeping,  and  when  we  had  talked  awhile 
longer  about  the  danger  of  unthankfulness,  and  the 
prospects  of  drug  clerks,  Little  Charge  suddenly 
straightened  out  stiffly  in  the  gocart  and  demanded 
his  "  bread'n'butter'n'sugar."  So  she  took  him 
away  and  nodded  me  a  really  bright  farewell;  and 
when  she  had  gone  a  few  steps  she  came  running 
back  and  shyly  laid  something  on  my  knee.  It  was 
the  fresh  pink.  After  that  you  may  be  sure  that  I 
would  have  carried  on  my  plan  in  the  face  of  all  disas 
ter,  save  indeed  the  opposition  of  Pelleas. 


*4     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

But  Pelleas  is  to  be  counted  on  in  everything.  He 
has  failed  me  but  once,  and  that  was  in  a  matter  of 
a  wedding  which  took  place  anyway  and  is  therefore 
an  incident  which  hardly  counts  against  him.  I  could 
hardly  wait  for  him  to  come  home.  I  was  at  the 
window  when  he  reached  the  steps,  and  before  he 
could  unbutton  his  greatcoat  he  knew  the  whole 
story.  But  Pelleas  is  not  inventive.  He  is  sympa 
thetic,  corroborative,  even  cooperative,  but  not  in 
ventive.  To  him  the  situation  simply  closed  down. 
"Poor  little  souls/'  he  said  ruefully,  "now  that  is 
hard.  So  that  young  rascal  is  in  love.  I  didn't 
know  he  ever  thought  of  anything  but  soda.  It's  a 
blessing  he  didn't  fix  me  up  a  chloroform  phosphate 
this  morning  in  sheer  misery.  Too  bad,  too  bad. 
Won't  matters  ever  be  straightened  out,  do  you 
think?" 

"No  later,"  said  I,  "than  seven  o'clock  to-night." 
"  Bless  my  soul ! "  cried  Pelleas.  "  How  ? " 
I  told  him,  quivering  with  the  pleasant  occupation 
of  minding  somebody  else's  affairs.  Pelleas  listened 
a  little  doubtfully  at  first  —  I  have  a  suspicion  that 
all  men  strive  to  convince  you  of  their  superior  judg 
ment  by  doubting,  at  first,  every  unusual  project;  all, 
that  is,  save  Pelleas,  whose  judgment  is  superior. 
But  presently  as  I  talked  a  light  began  to  break  in 
his  face  and  then  he  wrinkled  his  eyes  at  the  corners 
and  I  knew  that  I  had  won  the  day. 


THE   ELOPEMENT  85 

"Will  you,  Pelleas?"  I  cried  breathlessly. 

"I  will,"  Pelleas  answered  magnificently,  "if  I 
have  to  take  three  egg-phosphates  in  succession  to 
win  his  confidence." 

Nichola  knew  very  well  that  something  unusual 
and  delightful  was  at  harbour  in  the  house  that 
afternoon.  For  Pelleas  and  I  found  it  impossible 
to  read,  and  she  kept  coming  in  the  room  and 
finding  us  with  our  heads  together.  Nichola  is  one 
of  those  who  suspect  every  undertone  to  mean  a 
gigantic  enterprise.  I  think,  moreover,  that  she 
believes  us  wholly  capable  of  turning  the  drawing- 
room  into  a  theater  with  boxes,  and  presenting  a 
comedy.  Ah,  well  —  that  we  may,  as  the  days  grow 
colourless. 

At  a  little  before  six  o'clock  Pelleas  set  out,  I 
figuratively  dancing  on  the  doorstep  with  excitement. 

"Pelleas,"  I  whispered  him  in  the  hall,  "don't  you 
fail !  Pelleas,  if  you  fail,  attractive  as  you  are,  I 
shall  be  divorced  from  you !" 

He  smiled  confidently. 

"  I  feel  as  if  we  were  eloping  ourselves,"  he  said, 
"and  this  is  something  like." 

Before  the  clock  had  gone  six  Nichola  ushered  into 
the  drawing-room  Cornelia  Emmeline  Ayres.  In 
one  glance  I  knew  that  I  had  not  counted  on  her 
in  vain.  To  do  honour  to  me  she  appeared  in  full 
regalia  of  plum  colour.  But  she  had  been  crying 


86  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

all  day  —  I  saw  that  in  the  same  glance,  and  her  at 
tempt  to  be  cheerful  in  her  sadness  and  shyness 
went  to  my  heart. 

We  sat  beside  the  fire  where  I  could  watch  the 
clock,  but  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  very  hands  were 
signaling  to  her  what  my  plan  was.  Nichola  came 
in  with  more  coals,  which  we  needed  considerably 
less  than  more  wall  paper ;  but  Nichola's  curiosity 
is  her  one  recreation  and  almost  her  one  re 
source,  as  I  sometimes  think.  I  trembled  afresh 
lest  she  knew  all  about  this,  as  she  did  about 
everything  else,  and  would  suddenly  face  about 
on  the  hearth  rug  and  recite  the  whole  matter. 
She  went  out  in  silence,  however,  and  had  heard 
us  discuss  nothing  but  the  best  makes  of  go-carts, 
which  was  the  matter  that  first  presented  itself  to 
my  mind. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  said  I,  when  we  were  alone, 
"haven't  you  thought  better  of  it  ?  Shall  we  not  be 
married  at  fifteen  past  six,  after  all?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  the  tears  started  as  if  by 
appointment.  No;  we  would  not  be  married  that 
night,  it  would  appear. 

"Nor  ever  ?"  I  put  it  point-blank.  "Evan  won't 
wait  forever,  you  know." 

She  looked  forlornly  in  the  fire. 

"Not  as  long  as  She  needs  me  around." 

"Rubbish!"  cried  I,  at  this.     "There  are  a  thou- 


THE   ELOPEMENT  87 

sand  nursemaids  as  good  as  you,  I  dare  say  —  but 
there  is  only  one  wife  for  Evan." 

"That's  what  he  keeps  a-sayin',"  she  cried,  and 
broke  down  and  sobbed. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  rigidly  at  six. 
Then  and  there  I  cast  the  die. 

"I  wish  to  go  for  a  walk/'  I  said  abruptly. 
''Will  you  give  me  your  arm  for  a  block  or  so  ?" 

My  bonnet  was  ready  on  the  hall-table  and  I  had 
kept  the  pink  quite  fresh  to  pin  on  my  cloak.  We 
were  off  in  no  time  and  went  down  the  avenue  at 
a  brisk  pace,  while  Nichola  lurked  about  the  area, 
pretending  to  sweep  and  really  devoured  with  cu 
riosity. 

Cornelia  Emmeline  looked  up  longingly  at  all  the 
big,  beautiful  homes,  and  down  the  cross-streets  at 
all  that  impertinent  array  of  comfort,  so  hopelessly 
professional,  so  out  of  sympathy  with  the  amateur 
in  domesticity. 

"So  many  homes  all  fixed  up  for  somebody  else," 
she  said  wistfully. 

My  heart  ached  as  I  thought  of  all  the  little  people, 
divinely  in  love,  who  have  looked  up  at  those  grim 
fa£ades  with  the  same  thought.  Personally,  I  prefer 
a  flat,  but  it  takes  one  seventy  years  to  learn  even 
this. 

I  talked  on  as  well  as  I  could  about  little  in  par 
ticular  and  most  of  all  I  encouraged  her  to  talk,  since 


88     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

I  was  becoming  every  moment  more  excited.  For 
every  step  was  bringing  us  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
little  chapel,  and  at  last  we  rounded  the  corner  and 
were  full  upon  it.  A  clock  in  a  near-by  steeple  showed 
six-fifteen.  I  looked  anxiously  up  the  street  and  the 
street  was  empty. 

"Let  us,"  said  I,  guilelessly,  "go  in  here  and  rest 
awhile." 

Little  Nursemaid's  mouth  trembled. 

"Oh,  ma'am  —  no,  please  —  not  in  there!  I 
couldn't  go  in  there  to-nigbt,"  she  stammered. 

"Nonsense!"  said  I  sharply,  pretending  to  be 
very  cross.  "I  am  tired  and  I  must  have  rest." 

She  could  do  nothing  but  lead  me  up  the  steps, 
but  her  poor  little  face  was  quite  white.  So  was 
mine,  I  suspect.  Indeed,  I  fancy  that  neither  of  us 
could  have  borne  matters  very  much  longer.  Happily 
there  was  no  need ;  for  when  the  double  green  doors 
had  closed  behind  us  there  in  the  dim  anteroom 
stood  the  faithful  Pelleas  and  a  bewildered  Evan  — 
who  very  naturally  failed  to  understand  why  a 
strange  old  gentleman,  whom  he  had  hitherto  con 
nected  only  with  egg-phosphates  and  one  red  muffler, 
should  have  decoyed  him  from  his  waiting  supper 
to  a  chapel  of  painful  association. 

Pelleas  and  I  are  not  perfectly  agreed  on  what  did 
happen  next.  For  we  had  planned  no  farther  than 
the  church  door,  trusting  to  everything  to  come 


THE   ELOPEMENT  89 

right  the  moment  that  those  two  little  people  saw 
each  other  in  the  place  of  their  dream.  The  first 
thing  that  I  recall  is  that  I  fairly  pushed  Cornelia 
Emmeline  into  the  arms  of  the  young  soda-fountain 
king,  and  cried  out  almost  savagely:  — 

"  Be  married  —  be  married  at  once  !  And  thank 
the  Lord  that  you  love  each  other!" 

"But  She  — what'll  She—"  quavered  Cornelia 
Emmeline  on  a  coat-lapel. 

Then  young  Evan  rose  magnificently  to  the  oc 
casion.  He  took  her  little  white  face  in  his  hands, 
kissed  her  very  tenderly,  and  decided  for  her. 

"Now,  then,  Sweetheart,"  said  he,  "so  we  will! 
And  no  more  trouble  about  it!" 

Little  Nursemaid  gave  him  one  quick  look  —  shy, 
beseeching,  delicious  —  and  glanced  down. 

"I've  got  on  my  plum-colour',"  she  consented. 

Whereat  Pelleas  and  I,  who  had  been  standing  by, 
smiling  and  nodding  like  mandarins,  turned  ecstati 
cally  and  shook  hands  with  each  other. 

Evan,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  bliss,  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  Cornelia  Em 
meline  had  not  put  her  trust  in  a  worthless  fellow. 

"Six-twenty,"  said  he;  "I'll  run  across  and  get 
the  minister.  O,"  he  turned  to  us  helplessly, 
"what  if  he  can't  come  —  now  ?" 

I  shared  his  anxiety,  being  suspicious  that  in  the 
event  of  a  postponement  the  store  of  "bright  fifty 


90  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

cents  and  watered  ribbins"  might  prove  inexhaust 
ible. 

Then  very  leisurely  the  green  baize  doors  swung 
open  and  without  undue  haste  or  excitement  in 
walked  the  curate. 

"Ah  !"  we  four  said  breathlessly. 

"Ah,  my  young  friends,"  said  the  curate,  and 
seemed  to  include  us  all  —  and  at  the  time  this  did 
not  impress  me  as  impossible  —  "I  have  been  until 
this  moment  detained  at  the  bedside  of  a  sick  parish 
ioner.  I  regret  that  I  am  five  minutes  tardy." 

"Why,  sir  —  why,  sir — "  stammered  Evan,  "we 
meant  —  we  didn't  mean  — " 

The  curate  looked  his  perplexity. 

"Is  this  not  the  same  ?"  he  inquired,  adjusting  his 
pince-nez  and  throwing  his  head  back.  "Did  you 
not  make  an  appointment  with  me  for  six-fifteen 
to-day  ?  Surely  I  have  not  mistaken  the  day  ?" 

At  this  young  Evan  burst  into  a  laugh  that  sorely 
tried  the  echoes  of  the  anteroom. 

"Bless  me!"  he  cried,  "if  I  ain't  forgot  to  tell 
'im  not  to  come !" 

So  there  we  were,  snug  as  a  planned-out  wedding 
with  invitations  and  bells. 

They  were  married  in  the  vestry,  and  Pelleas  and 
I  had  the  honour  of  writing  our  names  below  theirs, 
and  we  both  wiped  our  eyes  right  through  the  entire 
process  in  a  fashion  perfectly  absurd. 


THE   ELOPEMENT  91 

"Parents  of  the  —  ?"  hesitated  the  curate,  regard 
ing  us  consultingly. 

I  looked  at  Pelleas  in  some  embarrassment,  and 
I  think  we  felt  that  he  was  concealing  something 
when  he  said  simply:  "No."  Perhaps  it  would  not 
have  been  legal  or  churchly  had  the  curate  known 
that  we  had  never  seen  Cornelia  Emmeline  until  that 
day  and  knew  nothing  of  Evan  save  egg-phosphates. 

On  the  steps  of  the  chapel  the  two  kissed  each 
other  with  beautiful  simplicity,  and  young  Evan 
shook  our  hands  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"How  —  how  come  you  to  do  it  ?"  he  asked,  this 
phase  of  the  hour  having  now  first  occurred  to  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Cornelia  Emmeline,  "I've  been 
a-wantin'  to  ask." 

Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other  somewhat  fool 
ishly. 

"  Bless  you ! "  we  mumbled  together.  "  I  don't 
know!" 

Off  went  young  Evan  like  a  god  to  his  star,  and 
Cornelia  Emmeline  walked  back  with  us,  and  we  all 
waved  our  hands  at  the  far  end  of  the  street.  Then 
we  left  her  at  the  door  of  the  Shrewd  Benefactress, 
and  with  broken  words  the  dear  little  soul  in  her 
best  plum-colour'  went  blithely  to  Little  Charge 
and  the  all-wool  elephant,  and  all  the  age  was  gold. 

Pelleas  and  I  walked  soberly  home. 

"Suppose,"  said  he  darkly,  "that  they  are  minors  ?" 


92  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"I  really  don't  care  if  they  are,"  cried  I,  with  great 
courage.  "They  have  acted  far  less  like  minors 
than  we  have." 

"Suppose  — "  he  began  again. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  "how  did  you  say  that  adver 
tisement  was  to  be  ?  '  Pelleas  and  Etarre,  Pro 
moters  of  Love  Stories  Unlimited  — " 

"Ah,  yes,  that's  all  very  well,"  he  insisted,  "but 
suppose  — " 

"And  who  was  it,"  I  pursued,  "who  was  half  per 
suaded  that  the  world  is  the  shape  of  a  heart  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  was  I,"  Pelleas  admitted  then, 
shaking  his  head. 

But  I  could  see  that  his  eyes  were  without  re 
morse. 


THE    DANCE 

I  THINK  that  by  then  Pelleas  and  I  had  fairly 
caught  the  colour  of  Youth.  For  I  protest  that  in 
Spring  Youth  is  a  kind  of  Lydian  stone,  and  the 
quality  of  old  age  is  proved  by  the  colour  which  it 
can  show  at  the  stone's  touch.  Though  perhaps  with 
us  the  gracious  basanite  has  often  exceeded  its 
pleasant  office  and  demonstrated  us  to  be  quite  mad. 

Otherwise  I  cannot  account  for  the  intolerance  of 
age  and  the  love  of  youth  that  came  upon  us.  I  was 
conscious  of  this  when  after  breakfast  one  morning 
Pelleas  and  I  stood  at  the  drawing-room  window 
watching  a  shower.  It  was  an  unassuming  storm  of 
little  drops  and  infrequent  gusts  and  looked  hardly  of 
sufficient  importance  to  keep  a  baby  within-doors. 
But  we  are  obliged  to  forego  our  walk  if  so  much  as 
a  sprinkling-cart  passes.  This  is  so  alien  to  youth 
that  it  always  leaves  us  disposed  to  take  exception 
and  to  fail  to  understand  and  to  resort  to  all  the 
ill-bred  devices  of  well-bred  people  who  are  too  in 
ventive  to  be  openly  unreasonable. 

As  "What  a  bony  horse,"  observed  Pelleas. 

93 


94  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"  Not  really  bony,"  I  said ;  "  its  ribs  do  not  show  in 
the  least." 

"  It  is  bony,"  reiterated  Pelleas  serenely.  "  It  isn't 
well  fed." 

"Perhaps,"  said  I,  "that  is  its  type.  A  great 
many  people  would  say  that  a  slender  woman  — " 

"  They  re  bony  too,"  went  on  Pelleas  decidedly.  "  !• 
never  saw  a  slender  woman  who  looked  as  if  she  had 
enough  to  eat." 

"Pelleas  !"  I  cried,  aghast  at  such  apostasy;  "think 
of  the  Women  with  lovely  tapering  waists  — " 

"Bean  poles,"  said  Pelleas. 

"And  sloping  shoulders  — " 

"Pagoda-shaped  shoulders,"  said  Pelleas. 

"And  delicate  pointed  faces  — " 

"They  look  hungry,  all  the  time,  and  bony," 
Pelleas  dismissed  the  matter  —  Pelleas,  who  in 
saner  moments  commiserates  me  upon  my  appalling 
plumpness. 

"There  comes  the  butter  woman,"  I  submitted, 
to  change  the  subject. 

"Yes,"  assented  Pelleas  resentfully,  finding  fresh 
fuel  in  this;  "Nichola  uses  four  times  too  much  butter 
in  everything." 

"Pelleas,"  I  rebuked  him,  "you  know  how  careful 
she  is." 

"She  is,"  insisted  Pelleas  stubbornly,  "extrava 
gant  in  butter." 


THE   DANCE  95 

"She  uses  a  great  deal  of  oil,"  I  suggested  tremu 
lously,  not  certain  whether  oil  is  the  cheaper. 

"Butter,  butter,  she  spreads  butter  on  the  soup," 
stormed  Pelleas.  "I  believe  she  uses  butter  to  boil 


water — " 


Then  I  laughed.  Pelleas  is  never  more  adorable 
•than  when  he  is  cross  at  some  one  else. 

At  that  very  moment  the  boy  who  was  driving  the 
butter  woman's  wagon  began  to  whistle.  It  was  a 
thin,  rich  little  tune,  a  tune  that  pours  slowly,  like 
honey.  I  am  not  musical  but  I  can  always  tell  honey- 
tunes.  At  sound  of  it  Pelleas'  face  lighted  as  if  at  a 
prescription  of  magic. 

"Etarre  —  Etarre!"  he  cried;  "do  you  hear  that 
tune?" 

"Yes,"  I  said  breathlessly. 

"  Do  you  remember  —  ? " 

"No,"  said  I,  just  as  breathlessly. 

"It's  the  Varsovienne,"  cried  Pelleas,  "that  we 
danced  together  the  night  that  I  met  you,  Etarre." 

With  that  Pelleas  caught  me  about  the  waist  and 
hummed  the  air  with  all  his  might  and  whirled  me 
down  the  long  room. 

"Pelleas!"  I  struggled.  "I  don't  know  it.  Let 
me  go." 

For  it  has  been  forty  years  since  I  have  danced  or 
thought  of  dancing  and  I  could  not  in  the  least  re 
member  the  silly  step. 


96  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Leaving  me  to  regain  my  breath  as  best  I  might 
Pelleas  was  off  up  the  room,  around  chairs  and 
about  tables,  stepping  long  and  short,  turning,  re 
treating,  and  singing  louder  and  louder. 

"You  stood  over  there,"  he  cried,  still  dancing; 
"the  music  had  begun  and  I  was  not  your  partner  — 
but  I  caught  you  away  before  you  could  say  no,  and 
we  danced  —  tol  te  tol  te  tol  — " 

Pelleas  was  performing  with  his  back  to  the  hall 
door  when  it  opened  softly,  and  he  did  not  hear. 
There  stood  Nichola.  I  have  never  before  seen 
that  grim  old  woman  look  astonished,  but  at  sight 
of  the  flying  figure  of  Pelleas  she  seemed  ready 
to  run  away.  It  was  something  to  see  old  Nichola 
taken  aback.  Our  old  servant  is  a  brave  woman, 
afraid  of  nothing  in  the  world  but  an  artificial 
bath  heater  which  she  would  rather  die  than  light, 
but  the  spectacle  of  Pelleas,  dancing,  seemed 
actually  to  frighten  her.  She  stood  silent  for  a  full 
minute  —  and  this  in  itself  was  amazing  in  Nichola, 
who  if  she  went  often  to  the  theater  would  certainly 
answer  back  to  the  player  talk.  Then  Pelleas 
faced  the  door  and  saw  her.  He  stopped  short  as 
if  he  had  been  a  toy  and  some  one  had  dropped  the 
string.  He  was  frightfully  abashed  and  was  there 
fore  never  more  haughty. 

"Nichola,"  he  said  with  lifted  brows,  "we  did  not 
ring." 


THE   DANCE  97 

Nichola  remained  motionless,  her  little  bead  eyes 
which  have  not  grown  old  with  the  rest  of  her 
quite  round  in  contemplation. 

"We  are  busy,  Nichola,"  repeated  Pelleas,  slightly 
raising  his  voice. 

Then  Nichola  regained  full  consciousness  and 
rolled  her  eyes  naturally. 

"Yah !"  said  she,  with  a  dignity  too  fine  for  scorn. 
"Busy!" 

Really,  Nichola  tyrannizes  over  us  in  a  manner 
not  to  be  borne.  Every  day  we  tell  each  other  this. 

Pelleas  looked  at  me  rather  foolishly  when  she  had 
disappeared. 

"That  was  the  way  it  went,"  said  he,  ignoring  the 
interruption  as  one  always  does  when  one  is  nettled. 
"Toltetoltetol—  " 

"Why  don't  you  sing  da  de  da  de  da,  Pelleas  ?"  I 
inquired,  having  previously  noticed  that  all  the  world 
is  divided  into  those  who  sing  tot,  or  da,  or  la,  or  na. 
"I  always  say  'Ja.'" 

"I  prefer  'to/,'  "  said  Pelleas  shortly. 

Sometime  I  intend  classifying  people  according 
to  that  one  peculiarity,  to  see  what  so  pronounced  a 
characteristic  can  possibly  augur. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  I,  to  restore  his  good  humour, 
"what  a  beau  you  were  at  that  ball,  Pelleas." 

"Nonsense!"  he  disclaimed,  trying  to  conceal  his 
pleasure. 

H 


98  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"And  how  few  of  us  have  kept  together  since,"  I 
went  on;  "there  are  Polly  Cleatam  and  Sally  Chartres 
and  Horace  and  Wilfred,  all  living  near  us;  and 
there's  Miss  Lillieblade,  too." 

"That  is  so,"  Pelleas  said,  "and  I  suppose  they 
will  all  remember  that  very  night  —  our  night." 

"Of  course,"  said  I  confidently. 

Pelleas  meditated,  one  hand  over  his  mouth,  his 
elbow  on  his  knee. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said ;  "  I  was  thinking  —  I  wouldn't 
be  surprised  if  —  well,  why  couldn't  we — " 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  me  in  some  suspicion  that 
I  knew  what  he  meant. 

"Have  them  all  here  some  evening?"  I  finished 
daringly. 

Pelleas  nodded. 

"And  dance!19  said  he,  in  his  most  venturesome 
mood. 

"  Pelleas  !"  I  cried,  "and  all  wear  our  old-fashioned 
things." 

Pelleas  smiled  at  me  speechlessly. 

The  plan  grew  large  in  our  eyes  before  I  remem 
bered  the  climax  of  the  matter. 

"Thursday,"  I  said  below  my  breath,  "Thursday, 
Pelleas,  is  Nicholas  day  out!" 

"Nichola's  day  out"  sounds  most  absurd  to  every 
one  who  has  seen  our  old  servant.  When  she  came 
to  us,  more  than  forty  years  ago,  she  had  landed 


THE   DANCE  99 

but  two  weeks  before  fromTtaly,  and  was  a  swarthy 
little  beauty  in  the  twenties.  She  spoke  small 
English  and  was  deliciously  amazed  at  everything, 
and  her  Italian  friends  used  to  come  and  take 
her  out  once  a  week,  on  Thursday.  With  her 
black  eyes  flashing  she  would  tell  me  next  day, 
while  she  dressed  me,  of  the  amazing  sights  that 
had  been  permitted  her.  Those  were  the  days 
when  we  had  many  servants  and  Nichola  was  my 
own  maid;  then  gradually  all  the  rest  left  and 
Nichola  remained,  even  through  one  black  year 
when  she  had  not  a  centime  of  wages.  And  so 
she  had  grown  gray  and  bent  in  our  service  and 
had  changed  in  appearance  to  another  being  and 
had  lost  her  graces  and  her  disposition  alike.  One 
thing  only  remained  the  same :  She  still  had  Thurs 
day  evenings  "out." 

Where  in  the  world  she  found  to  go  now,  was  a 
favourite  subject  of  speculation  with  Pelleas  and  me 
over  our  drawing-room  fire.  She  had  no  friends,  no 
one  came  to  see  her,  she  did  not  mention  frequenting 
any  houses ;  she  was  openly  averse  to  the  dark  — 
not  afraid,  but  averse;  and  her  contempt  for  all 
places  of  amusement  was  second  only  to  her  dis 
trust  of  the  cable  cars.  Yet  every  Thursday  even 
ing  she  set  forth  in  her  best  purple  bonnet  and 
black  "circular,"  and  was  gone  until  eleven  o'clock. 
Old,  lonely,  withered  woman  —  where  did  she  go  ? 


ioo  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Unless  indeed,  it  was,  as  we  half  suspected,  to  take 
certain  lessons  in  magic  whereby  she  seems  to 
divine  our  inmost  thoughts  and  intentions. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  we  planned  to  make  a 
base  and  harmless  advantage  of  Nichola's  absence. 
We  meant  to  give  a  party,  a  dance ',  with  seven  guests. 
Nichola,  we  were  certain,  would  not  for  a  moment 
have  supported  the  idea;  she  would  have  had  a 
thousand  silly  objections  concerning  my  sleepless 
ness  and  our  nerves  and  the  digestion  of  Pelleas.  We 
argued  that  all  three  objections  were  inadequate, 
and  that  Nichola  was  made  for  us  and  not  we  for 
Nichola.  This  bold  innovation  of  thought  alone 
will  show  how  adventuresome  we  were  become. 

We  set  about  our  preparation  with  proper  caution. 
For  one  whole  forenoon  I  kept  Pelleas  in  the  kitchen, 
as  sentinel  to  Nichola,  driving  her  nearly  mad  with 
his  forced  excuses  for  staying  while  I  risked  my  neck 
among  boxes  long  undisturbed.  But  then  I  love  an 
attic.  I  have  always  a  sly  impulse  to  attempt 
framing  ours  for  a  wall  of  our  drawing-room.  I 
prefer  most  attics  to  some  libraries.  I  have  known 
houses  whose  libraries  do  not  invite,  but  gesticulate; 
whose  dining-rooms  have  an  air  of  awful  permanence, 
like  a  ship's  dining-room ;  and  whose  drawing-rooms 
are  as  uninhabitable  as  the  guillotine;  yet  above 
stairs  would  lie  a  splendid  attic  of  the  utmost  distinc 
tion.  These  places  always  have  chests  which  thrill 


THE   DANCE  loV 

one  with  the  certainty  that  they  are  filled  with  some 
thing  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  something  which  does 
not  anywhere  exist:  Vague,  sumptuous  things,  such 
as  sultans  give  for  wedding  gifts,  and  such  as  parcels 
are  always  suggesting  without  ever  fulfilling  the 
suggestion.  Yet  when  chests  like  these  are  opened 
they  are  found  to  contain  most  commonplace 
matter  —  trunk  straps  with  the  buckles  missing, 
printed  reports  of  forgotten  meetings  called  to  ex 
ploit  forgotten  enthusiasms,  and  cotton  wadding. 
Yet  I  never  go  up  to  our  attic  without  an  im 
pulse  of  expectancy.  I  dare  say  if  I  persist  I  shall 
find  a  Spanish  doubloon  there  some  day.  But  that 
morning  I  found  only  what  I  went  to  seek  —  the 
lustrous  white  silk  which  I  had  worn  on  the  night 
that  I  met  Pelleas.  We  had  looked  at  it  together 
sometimes,  but  for  very  long  it  had  lain  unregarded 
and  the  fine  lace  about  the  throat  was  yellowed 
and  it  had  caught  the  odour  of  the  lonely  days 
and  nights.  But  it  was  in  my  eyes  no  less  beauti 
ful  than  on  the  night  that  I  had  first  worn  it. 

I  hid  it  away  in  my  closet  beneath  sober  raiment 
and  went  down  to  release  Pelleas.  When  I  entered 
the  kitchen  Nichola  glanced  at  me  once,  and  without 
a  word  led  me  to  the  looking-glass  in  the  door  of  the 
clock. 

"  Yah?  "she  questioned  suspiciously.  "Is  it  that 
you  have  been  tomboning  about,  building  fires-?" 


102  LOVES' OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

I  looked,  wondering  vaguely  what  Nichola  can 
possibly  mean  by  tomboning,  which  she  is  always 
using.  There  was  a  great  place  of  dust  on  my  cheek. 
I  am  a  blundering  criminal  and  should  never  be 
allowed  in  these  choice  informalities. 

That  afternoon  while  Nichola  was  about  her  mar 
keting,  Pelleas  and  I  undertook  to  telephone  to  our 
guests.  When  I  telephone  I  always  close  my  eyes, 
for  which  Pelleas  derides  me  as  he  passes;  and 
when  he  telephones  he  invariably  turns  on  the  light 
on  the  landing.  Perhaps  this  is  because  men  are 
at  home  in  the  presence  of  science  while  women, 
never  having  been  gods,  fear  its  thunder-bolt 
methods.  Pelleas  said  something  like  this  to  our 
friends :  — 

"Do  you  remember  the  ball  at  the  Selby- Whit- 
fords'  ?  Yes  —  the  one  on  Washington's  Birthday 
forty-nine  years  ago  ?  Well,  Etarre  and  I  are  going 
to  give  another  ball  to  the  seven  survivors.  Yes  —  a 
ball.  Just  we  seven.  And  you  must  wear  something 
that  you  might  have  worn  that  night.  It's  going  to 
be  Thursday  at  eight  o'clock,  and  it's  quite  a  secret. 
Will  you  come  ?" 

Would  they  come !  Although  the  "seven  surviv 
ors"  did  suggest  a  steamship  disaster,  our  guests 
could  have  risen  to  no  promise  of  festivity  with 
greater  thanksgiving.  At  the  light  that  broke  over 
Pelleas'  face  at  their  answers  my  heart  rejoiced. 


THE   DANCE  103 

Would  they  come !  Polly  Cleatam  promised  for 
herself  and  her  husband,  although  all  their  grand 
children  were  their  guests  that  week.  Sally  Char- 
tres'  son,  a  stout,  middle-aged  senator,  was  with 
her  but  she  said  that  she  would  leave  him  with 
his  nurse;  and  Miss  Willie  Lillieblade  cried  out 
at  first  that  she  was  a  hermit  with  neuralgia  and 
at  second  thought  added  that  she  would  come 
anyway  and  if  necessary  be  buried  directly  from 
our  house. 

The  hall  was  dark  and  silent  again  when  Nichola 
came  toiling  home  and  there  was  nothing  to  tell  her, 
as  we  thought,  what  plans  had  peopled  the  air  in  her 
absence.  Nor  in  the  three  days  of  our  preparation 
did  we  leave  behind,  we  were  sure,  one  scrap  or 
one  breath  of  evidence  against  us.  We  worked  with 
the  delighted  caution  of  naughty  children  or  escap 
ing  convicts.  Pelleas,  who  has  a  delicate  taste  in 
sweets,  ordered  the  cakes  when  he  took  his  afternoon 
walk  and  went  back  to  the  shop  every  day  to  charge 
the  man  not  to  deliver  the  things  until  the  evening. 
My  sewing  woman's  son  plays  the  violin  "like  his 
own  future,"  as  Pelleas  applauds  him,  and  it  was 
easy  to  engage  him  and  his  sister  to  accompany  him. 
Meanwhile  I  rearranged  my  old  gown,  longing  for 
Nichola,  who  has  a  genius  in  more  than  cookery. 
To  be  sure  Pelleas  did  his  best  to  help  me,  though 
he  knows  no  more  of  such  matters  than  the  spirits 


104  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

of  the  air;  he  can  button  very  well  but  to  hook  is 
utterly  beyond  his  simple  art.  However,  he  at 
tended  to  everything  else.  After  dark  on  Thursday 
he  smuggled  some  roses  into  the  house  and  though 
I  set  the  pitcher  in  my  closet  I  could  smell  the  flowers 
distinctly  while  we  were  at  dinner.  It  is  frightful  to 
have  a  conscience  that  can  produce  not  only  terrors 
but  fragrances. 

We  were  in  a  fever  of  excitement  until  Nichola  got 
off.  While  Pelleas  tidied  the  drawing-room  I  went 
down  and  wiped  the  dishes  for  her  —  in  itself  a  mat 
ter  to  excite  suspicion  —  and  I  broke  a  cup  and  was 
meek  enough  when  Nichola  scolded  me.  Every 
moment  I  expected  the  ice  cream  to  arrive,  in  which 
event  I  believe  I  would  have  tried  to  prove  to 
Nichola  that  it  was  a  prescription  and  that  the  cakes 
were  for  the  poor. 

Pelleas  and  I  waited  fearfully  over  the  drawing- 
room  fire,  dreading  her  appearance  at  the  door  to 
say  her  good-night ;  for  to  our  minds  every  chair  and 
fixture  was  signaling  a  radiant  "Party!  Party!" 
like  a  clarion.  But  she  thrust  in  her  old  face,  nodded, 
and  safely  withdrew  and  we  heard  the  street  door 
close.  Thereupon  we  got  upstairs  at  a  perilous  pace 
and  I  had  on  the  white  gown  in  a  twinkling  while 
Pelleas,  his  hands  trembling,  made  ready  too. 

I  hardly  looked  in  the  mirror  for  the  roses  had 
yet  to  be  arranged.  I  gathered  them  in  my 


THE   DANCE  105 

arms  and  Pelleas  followed  me  down,  and  as  we 
entered  the  drawing-room  I  felt  his  arm  about 
my  waist. 

"Etarre,"  he  said.     "Look,  Etarre." 

He  led  me  to  the  great  gilt-framed  cheval  glass  set 
in  its  shadowy  corner.  I  looked,  since  he  was 
determined  to  have  me. 

I  remembered  her  so  well,  that  other  I  who  forty- 
nine  years  ago  had  stood  before  her  mirror  dressed 
for  the  Selby-Whitford  ball.  The  brown  hair  of 
the  girl  whom  I  remembered  was  piled  high  on  her 
head  and  fastened  with  a  red  rose;  the  fine  lace  lay 
about  her  throat  and  fell  upon  her  arms,  and  the 
folds  of  the  silk  touched  and  lifted  over  a  petticoat  of 
lawn  and  lace.  And  here  was  the  white  gown  and 
here  the  petticoat  and  tucker,  and  my  hair  which  is 
quite  white  was  piled  high  and  held  its  one  rose. 
The  white  roses  in  my  arms  and  in  my  hair  were 
like  ghosts  of  the  red  ones  that  I  had  carried  at  that 
other  ball  —  but  I  was  no  ghost !  For  as  I  looked  at 
Pelleas  and  saw  his  dear  face  shining  I  knew  that 
I  was  rather  the  happy  spirit  risen  from  the  days 
when  roses  were  not  white,  but  merely  red. 

Pelleas  stooped  to  kiss  me,  stooped  just  enough 
to  make  me  stand  on  tiptoe  as  he  always  does,  and 
then  the  door-bell  rang. 

"Pelleas!"  I  scolded,  "and  the  roses  not  ar 
ranged." 


io6  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"You  know  you  wanted  to,"  said  Pelleas,  shame 
lessly.  And  the  truth  of  this  did  not  in  the  least 
prevent  my  contradicting  it. 

Sally  Chartres  and  Wilfred  came  first,  Sally  talk 
ing  high  and  fast  as  of  old.  Such  a  dear  little  old 
lady  as  Sally  is.  I  can  hardly  write  her  down  "old 
lady"  without  a  smile  at  the  hyperbole,  for  though 
she  is  more  than  seventy  and  is  really  Madame  Sarah 
Chartres,  she  knows  and  I  know  the  jest  and  that 
she  is  just  Sally  all  the  time. 

She  threw  off  her  cloak  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
her  pearl  earrings  and  necklace  bobbing  and  ticking. 
At  sight  of  her  blue  gown,  ruffled  to  the  waist  and 
laced  with  black  velvet,  I  threw  my  arms  about  her 
and  we  almost  laughed  and  cried  together;  for  we 
both  remembered  how,  before  she  was  sure  that 
Wilfred  loved  her,  she  had  spent  the  night  with  me 
after  a  ball  and  had  sat  by  the  window  until  dawn, 
in  that  very  blue  frock,  weeping  in  my  arms  because 
Wilfred  had  danced  so  often  with  Polly  Cleatam. 
And  now  here  was  Wilfred  looking  as  if  he  had  had 
no  thought  but  Sally  all  his  days. 

In  came  Polly  Cleatam  herself  presently  in  her 
old  silk  poplin  trimmed  with  fringe,  and  her  dimples 
were  as  deep  as  on  the  day  of  her  elopement.  Polly 
was  nineteen  when  she  eloped  on  the  evening  of  her 
debut  party  with  Horace  who  was  not  among  the 
guests.  And  the  sequel  is  of  the  sort  that  should  be 


THE   DANCE  107 

suppressed,  but  I  must  tell  it,  being  a  very  truthful 
old  woman  and  having  once  or  twice  assisted  at  an 
elopement  myself:  They  are  very  happy.  Polly  is  an 
adorable  old  lady;  she  has  been  a  grandmother  for 
nineteen  years,  and  the  Offence  is  Lisa's  best  friend. 
But  whereas  Sally  and  I  have  no  idea  of  our  own  age 
Polly,  since  her  elopement,  has  rebounded  into  a 
Restraining  Influence.  That  often  happens.  I 
think  that  the  severest-looking  women  I  know  have 
eloped  and  have  come  to  think  twice  of  everything 
else.  Polly  with  an  elopement  behind  her  is  inva 
riably  the  one  to  say  "Hush,"  and  "I  wouldn't." 

Miss  Willie  Lillieblade  was  late.  She  came  in 
wound  in  costly  furs  —  Heaven  provided  her  bank 
account  in  the  neuter  gender  —  and  she  stood  re 
vealed  in  a  gorgeous  flowered  gown,  new,  but  quite 
like  the  one  which  she  had  worn  at  the  very  ball  that 
we  were  celebrating.  Miss  Lillieblade  is  tiny,  and 
though  her  hair  is  quite  white  she  seems  to  have  taken 
on  none  of  the  graces  of  age.  She  has  grown  old  like 
an  expensive  India-rubber  ball,  retaining  some  of 
her  elasticity  and  constantly  suggesting  her  former 
self  instead  of  becoming  another  article  altogether. 
She  has  adopted  caps,  not  soft,  black,  old-lady  caps, 
but  perky  little  French  affairs  of  white.  She  is  erect 
—  and  she  walks  with  a  tall  white  staff,  silver-headed, 
the  head  being  filled  with  two  kinds  of  pills  though 
few  know  about  that. 


io8  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

I  fancy  that  we  were  in  great  contrast;  for  Miss 
Lillieblade  is  become  a  fairy-godmother-looking  old 
lady;  Polly  Cleatam  has  taken  on  severity  and  poise 
and  has  conquered  all  obstacles  save  her  dimples; 
Sally  has  developed  into  a  grande  dame  of  old  lace 
and  Roman  mosaic  pins;  and  I  look  for  all  the  world 
like  the  plump  grandmothers  that  they  paint  on 
calendars. 

Pelleas  and  Wilfred  and  Horace  talked  us  over. 

"Ah,  well  now,"  said  Wilfred,  "they  look  not  a 
day  older  than  when  we  were  married,  and  Miss 
Willie  is  younger  than  any  one." 

Wilfred,  who  used  to  be  slim  and  bored,  is  a  plump, 
rosy  old  gentleman  interested  in  everything  to  the 
point  —  never  beyond  —  of  curiosity.  O  these  youth 
ful  poses  of  languor  and  faint  surprise,  how  they 
exchange  themselves  in  spite  of  themselves  for  the 
sterling  coin  ! 

Horace  beamed  across  at  Polly  —  Horace  is  a  man 
of  affairs  in  Nassau  Street  and  his  name  is  conjured 
with  as  the  line  between  his  eyes  would  lead  one  to 
suspect;  yet  his  eyes  twinkled  quite  as  they  used 
before  the  line  was  there. 

"Polly,"  he  begged,  "may  I  call  you  'Polly'  to 
night  ?  I've  been  restricted  to  '  Penelope/ >}  he 
explained,  "ever  since  our  Polly  was  born.  Then 
after  her  coming  out  she  demanded  the  Penelope, 
and  I  went  back  to  the  Polly  I  preferred.  But  now 


THE   DANCE  109 

our  Polly-Penelope  is  forty,  and  there  is  a  little 
seminary  Polly  who  is  Polly  too,  though  I  dare  say 
the  mite  may  rebuke  us  any  day  for  undue  familiar 
ity.  May  I  say  'Polly'  now?" 

Pelleas  was  smiling. 

"  I  leave  it  to  you,"  he  said  generously  to  every  one, 
"to  say  if  Etarre's  hair  was  not  white  at  our  wedding  ? 
She  has  always  looked  precisely  —  but  precisely  !  — 
the  way  she  looks  now." 

Miss  Willie  Lillieblade  sighed  and  tapped  with  her 
staff. 

"Pooh!"  said  she.  "Old  married  folk  always  live 
in  the  past.  I'm  a  young  thing  of  seventy-four  and 
I've  learned  to  live  in  the  present.  Let's  dance. 
My  neuralgia  is  coming  back." 

We  had  the  chairs  away  in  a  minute,  and  Pelleas 
summoned  from  the  dining-room  the  musicians  — 
a  Danish  lad  with  a  mane  of  straight  hair  over  his 
eyes  and  his  equally  Danish  sister  in  a  collarless  loose 
wool  frock.  They  struck  into  the  Varsovienne  with 
a  will  and  at  the  sound  my  heart  bounded ;  and,  Pel- 
leas  having  recalled  to  me  the  step  when  Nichola  was 
not  looking,  I  danced  away  with  Wilfred  as  if  I 
knew  how  to  do  nothing  else.  Pelleas  danced  with 
Miss  Willie  who  kept  her  staff  in  her  hand  and  would 
tap  the  floor  at  all  the  impertinent  rests  in  the  music, 
while  Pelleas  sang  "tol"  above  everything.  Polly 
insisted  on  dancing  alone  —  I  suspect  because  her 


i  io  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

little  feet  are  almost  as  trim  as  when  she  wore  one's  — • 
and  she  lifted  her  poplin  and  sailed  about  among 
us.  Sally  kept  her  head  prettily  on  one  side  for  all  the 
world  as  she  used,  though  now  her  gray  curls  were 
bobbing.  Horace,  who  suffers  frightfully  from  gout, 
kept  beside  her  at  a  famous  pace  and  his  eyes  were 
quite  triangular  with  pain.  "Tol  te  tol  te  toll"  in 
sisted  Pelleas,  with  Miss  Willie  holding  her  hand  to 
her  neuralgia  as  she  whirled.  I  looked  down  at  the 
figures  on  the  carpet  gliding  beneath  my  feet  and  for 
one  charmed  moment,  with  the  lilt  of  the  music  in 
my  blood,  I  could  have  been  certain  that  now  was  not 
now,  but  then! 

This  lasted,  as  you  may  imagine,  somewhat  less 
than  three  minutes.  Breathless  we  sank  down  one  by 
one,  though  Sally  and  Pelleas,  now  together  and  now 
alone,  outdanced  us  all  until  we  dreaded  to  think 
what  the  morrow  held  for  them  both.  Miss  Lillie- 
blade  was  on  her  knees  by  the  fire  trying  to  warm 
her  painful  cheek  on  an  andiron  knob  and  laughing 
at  every  one.  Polly  with  flushed  face  and  tumbled 
hair  was  crying  out:  "O,  but  stop,  Sally!"  and 
"  Pray  be  careful ! "  and  fanning  herself  with  an  un- 
framed  water-colour  that  had  been  knocked  from 
the  mantel.  We  all  knew  for  that  matter  that  we 
would  have  to  pay,  but  then  we  paid  anyway.  If 
one  has  to  have  gout  and  attendant  evils  one  may 
as  well  make  them  a  fair  exchange  for  innocent 


THE   DANCE  in 

pleasure  instead  of  permitting  them  to  be  mere  usury. 
Pelleas  said  that  afterward. 

Sally  suddenly  laughed  aloud. 

"They  think  that  we  have  to  be  helped  up  and 
down  steps  !"  she  said  blithely. 

We  caught  her  meaning  and  joined  in  her  laugh 
at  the  expense  of  a  world  that  fancies  us  to  have  had 
our  day. 

"If  we  liked,"  said  Miss  Lillieblade,  "I  have  no 
doubt  we  could  meet  here  every  night  when  no  one 
was  looking,  and  be  our  exact  selves  of  the  Selby- 
Whitford  ball." 

Horace  smiled  across  at  Polly. 

"Who  would  read  them  to  sleep  with  fairy  stories  ?" 
he  demanded. 

Polly  nodded  her  gray  curls  and  smiled  tenderly. 

"And  who  would  get  my  son,  the  senator,  a  drink 
of  water  when  he  cried  for  it?"  gayly  propounded 
Sally. 

Pelleas  and  I  were  silent.  The  evenings  that  we 
spent  together  in  the  nursery  were  bitterly  long  ago. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Miss  Lillieblade  with  a  little  sigh, 
"I  could  come,  at  any  rate." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent.  "Let's  dance 
again  !"  she  cried. 

We  danced  a  six-step  —  those  little  people  could 
play  anything  that  we  asked  for  —  and  then,  to  rest, 
we  walked  through  a  minuet,  Pelleas  playing  a 


ii2  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

double  role.  And  thereafter  we  all  sat  down  and 
shook  our  heads  at  the  music  and  pretended  to  be 
most  exhausted,  and  I  was  glad  that  the  rest  pre 
tended  for  I  really  was  weak  with  fatigue  and  so 
was  Pelleas.  For  half  an  hour  we  sat  about  the  fire, 
Miss  Willie  with  her  face  constantly  upon  the  and 
iron  though  she  recalled  more  delightful  things 
than  anybody. 

"Then  there  was  Aunt  Effie  in  Vermont,"  she  had 
just  said,  her  voice  cracking  deliciously  on  its  high 
tones,  "who  cooked  marvelously.  And  when  the 
plain  skirts  came  in  she  went  about  declaring  that 
she  would  never  have  one  that  wasn't  full,  because 
she  couldn't  make  a  comforter  out  of  it  afterward !" 

At  that  mention  of  marvelous  cookery  and  in  the 
laugh  which  followed,  Pelleas  and  I  slipped  without. 
For  we  were  suddenly  in  an  agony  of  foreboding, 
realizing  horribly  that  we  had  not  once  heard  the 
area-bell  ring.  And  if  the  ices  and  cakes  had  been 
left  outside  it  would  probably  be  true  that  by  now 
they  had  gone  to  the  poor. 

The  back  stairway  was  dark  for  Nichola  always 
extinguishes  all  the  lower  lights  when  she  goes  out. 
We  groped  our  way  down  the  stairs  as  best  we  might, 
Pelleas  clasping  my  hand.  We  were  breathing 
quickly,  and  as  for  me  my  knees  were  trembling. 
For  the  first  time  the  enormity  of  our  situation  over 
came  me.  What  if  the  ices  had  not  come  ?  Or  had 


THE   DANCE  113 

been  stolen  ?  What  about  plates  ?  And  spoons  ? 
Where  did  Nichola  keep  the  best  napkins  ?  And 
after  all  Sally  was  Madame  Sarah  Chartres,  whose 
entertainments  were  superb.  All  this  flooded  my 
spirit  at  once  and  I  clung  to  Pelleas  for  strength. 

"Pelleas,"  I  murmured  weakly,  "did  the  ice-cream 
man  promise  to  have  it  here  in  time  ?" 

"He's  had  to  promise  me  that  every  day  since  I 
first  ordered  it,"  Pelleas  assured  me  cheerfully, 
"five  or  six  times,  in  all." 

"O,"  said  I,  as  if  I  had  no  character,  "I  feel  as  if 
I  should  faint,  Pelleas." 

Three  steps  from  the  bottom  I  stood  still  and 
caught  at  his  coat.  Through  the  crack  at  the  top  of 
the  door  I  could  see  a  light  in  the  kitchen.  At  the 
same  moment  an  odour  —  faint,  permeating,  deli 
cious,  unmistakable  —  saluted  us  both.  It  was  coffee. 

Pelleas  flung  open  the  door  and  we  stood  making  a 
guilty  tableau  on  the  lowest  step. 

The  kitchen  was  brightly  lighted  and  a  fire  blazed 
on  the  hearth.  The  gas  range  was  burning  and  a 
kettle  of  coffee  was  playing  its  fragrant  role.  Plates, 
napkins,  and  silver  were  on  the  dresser;  the  boxes 
of  ices  were  on  the  sill  of  the  open  area  window;  on 
the  table  stood  the  cakes,  cut,  and  flanked  by  a  tray 
of  thin  white  sandwiches ;  the  great  salad  bowl  was 
ready  with  a  little  tray  of  things  for  the  dressing; 
from  a  white  napkin  I  saw  protruding  the  leg  of  a 


ii4  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

cold  fowl;  there  was  the  chafing  dish  waiting  to 
hold  something  else  delectable.  And  in  the  rocking- 
chair  before  the  fire,  wearing  an  embroidered  white 
apron  and  waiting  with  closed  eyes,  sat  Nichola. 

"O  Nichola,"  we  cried  together  in  awed  voices, 
"Nichola." 

She  opened  an  eye,  without  so  much  as  lifting  her 
head. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,"  she  said,  "it's  'most  time. 
The  coffee's  just  ready  an'  Our  Lady  knows  you've 
been  havin'  a  hard  evenin'.  Ain't  you  hungry, 
dancin'  so  ?  Well,  go  back  upstairs,  the  both  of  you." 

We  went.  In  the  dark  of  the  stairway  we  clung 
to  each  other,  filled  with  amazement  and  thanks 
giving.  We  could  hear  Nichola  moving  briskly  about 
the  kitchen  collecting  her  delicacies.  How  bad  she 
found  us  out  ?  O,  and  now  at  last  was  not  the  secret 
of  her  mysterious  Thursday  evenings  revealed  to  us  ? 
She  did  go  somewhere  for  lessons  in  magic  and  she 
had  learned  to  read  our  inmost  thoughts  ! 

From  above  stairs  came  the  laughter  of  the  others, 
echoes  of  that  ancient  ball  which  we  had  been  pre 
tending  to  re-live,  trading  the  empty  past  for  the 
largess  and  beauty  of  now. 

Pelleas  slipped  his  arm  about  me  to  help  me  up 
the  stairs. 

"Etarre,"  he  said,  "I  am  glad  that  now  is  now — - 
and  not  then  ! " 


VI 

THE    HONEYMOON 

I  HAVE  often  deplored  that  unlucky  adjustment 
which  allotted  to  the  medicines,  countries,  flavour 
ing  extracts,  and  the  like,  names  which  should  have 
been  reserved  for  women.  For  example  what 
beautiful  names  for  beautiful  women  are  Arnica, 
Ammonia,  land  Magnesia;  as  for  Syria,  one  could 
fall  in  love  with  a  woman  called  Syria;  and  it 
would  be  sufficient  to  make  a  poet  out  of  any  lover 
to  sit  all  day  at  the  feet  of  a  woman  named  Vanilla. 

This  occurred  to  me  again  as  a  fortnight  later  Pel- 
leas  and  I  took  our  seats  in  the  train  for  the  sea,  since 
across  the  aisle  sat  a  pale  and  pretty  little  invalid 
girl  whose  companions  called  her  "Phenie."  I  do 
not  know  what  this  term  professed  to  abbreviate, 
but  I  myself  would  have  preferred  to  be  known 
by  the  name  of  some  euphonious  disease,  say  Pneu 
monia.  Monia  would  make  a  very  pretty  love- 
name,  as  they  say. 

Our  little  neighbour  should  have  had  a  beautiful 
name.  She  looked  not  a  day  past  ten,  though  I 
learned  that  she  was  sixteen;  and  she  was  pale  and 

"5 


ii6  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

spiritless,  but  her  great  dark  eyes  were  filled  with 
the  fervour  which  might  have  been  hers  if  life  had 
been  more  kind.  She  had  a  merry  laugh,  and  a 
book;  not  what  I  am  wont  to  call  a  tramp  book, 
seeking  to  interest  people,  but  a  book  of  dignity 
and  parts  which  solicits  nobody,  a  book  which 
may  have  a  bookplate  under  its  leather  wing. 

I  puzzled  pleasantly  over  the  two  in  whose  charge 
she  appeared  to  be  and  finally  I  took  Pelleas  in  my 
confidence. 

"Pelleas,"  said  I,  "do  you  think  that  those  two 
can  be  her  parents  ?" 

"Bless  you,  no,  dear,"  he  answered;  "they  are  not 
old  enough.  She  is  more  likely  to  be  sister  to  one 
of  them.  They  are  very  much  in  love." 

"I  noticed,"  I  agreed;  "they  must  be  old-young 
married  people." 

"  Instead  of  young-old  married  people  like  us," 
Pelleas  said. 

For  Pelleas  and  I,  merely  because  we  are  seventy 
and  white-haired  and  frightened  to  cross  streets,  are 
not  near  enough  to  death  to  treat  each  other  so  coldly 
as  do  half  the  middle-aged.  I  cannot  imagine  a 
breakfast  at  which  we  two  would  separate  the  morn 
ing  paper  and  intrude  stocks  and  society  upon  our 
companionship  and  our  omelet.  At  hotels  I  have 
seen  elderly  people  who  looked  as  if  breakfast  could 
a  prison  make  and  coffee  cups  a  cage.  Pelleas  and 


THE   HONEYMOON  117 

I  are  not  of  these,  and  we  look  with  kindly  eyes  upon 
all  who  have  never  known  that  youth  has  gone, 
because  love  stays. 

So  we  were  delighted  when  we  saw  our  old-young 
married  people  and  the  little  invalid  preparing  to 
leave  the  train  with  us.  When  we  drew  into  our 
station  the  big  kindly  conductor,  with  a  nasturtium 
in  a  buttonhole,  came  bearing  down  upon  Little 
Invalid  and  carried  her  from  the  car  in  his  vast  arms 
and  across  the  platform  to  a  carriage.  And  we,  in  a 
second  carriage,  found  ourselves  behind  the  little 
party  driving  to  the  sea. 

I  had  been  so  absorbed  in  our  neighbours  that 
until  the  salt  air  blew  across  our  faces  I  had  for 
gotten  what  a  wonderful  day  it  really  was  to  be. 
Pelleas  and  I  were  come  alone  to  the  seaside  with  no 
one  to  look  after  us  and  no  one  to  meet  us  and  we 
meant  to  have  such  a  holiday  as  never  had  been 
known.  It  came  about  in  this  wise :  — 

We  were  grown  hungry  for  the  sea.  All  winter 
long  over  our  drawing-room  fire  we  had  talked  about 
the  sea.  We  had  pretended  that  the  roar  of  the 
elevated  trains  was  the  charge  and  retreat  of  the 
breakers  and  we  had  remembered  a  certain  summer 
years  before,  when  —  Pelleas  still  being  able  to 
model  and  I  to  write  so  that  a  few  were  deceived  — • 
we  had  taken  a  cottage  having  a  great  view  and  no 
room,  and  we  had  spent  one  of  the  summers  which 


ii8  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

are  torches  to  the  years  to  follow.  Who  has  once 
lived  by  the  sea  becomes  its  fellow  and  it  is  likely  to 
grow  lyric  in  his  heart  years  afterward  and  draw  him 
back.  So  it  had  long  been  drawing  Pelleas  and  me 
until,  the  Spring  being  well  advanced,  we  had  risen 
one  morning  saying,  "We  must  go  to-morrow." 

We  had  dreaded  confessing  to  Nichola  our  inten 
tion.  Nichola  renounces  everything  until  her  re 
nunciations  are  not  virtue  but  a  disease.  She  cannot 
help  it.  She  is  caught  in  a  very  contagion  of  renun 
ciation,  and  one  never  proposes  anything  that  she  does 
not  either  object  to  or  seek  to  postpone.  When  the 
day  comes  for  Nichola  to  die  it  has  long  been  my 
belief  that  she  will  give  up  the  project  as  a  self-indul 
gence.  Therefore  it  was  difficult  for  us  to  approach 
her  who  rules  us  with  the  same  rod  which  she 
continually  brandishes  over  her  own  spirit.  It  was 
I  who  told  her  at  last;  for  since  that  day  when 
Nichola  came  upon  Pelleas  trying  to  dance,  he  has 
lost  his  assurance  in  her  presence,  dislikes  to  address 
her  without  provocation,  and  agrees  with  everything 
that  she  says  as  if  he  had  no  spirit.  I,  being  a  very 
foolhardy  and  tactless  old  woman,  put  it  to  her  in 
this  way :  — 

"Nichola  !  Pelleas  and  I  are  going  to  the  seashore 
for  all  day  to-morrow/* 

"Yah!"  said  Nichola  derisively,  putting  her  gray 
moss  hair  from  her  eyes.  "Boat-ridin'  ?" 


THE   HONEYMOON  119 

"No,"  said  I  gently,  "no,  Nichola.  But  we 
want  the  sea  —  we  need  the  sea." 

Nichola  narrowed  her  eyes  and  nodded  as  if  she 
knew  more  about  the  sea  than  she  would  care  to  tell. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said  with  resignation,  "I  s'pose 
the  good  Lord  don't  count  suicide  a  first-class  crime 
when  you're  old." 

"We  shall  want  breakfast,"  I  continued  with  great 
firmness,  "at  half  after  six." 

"The  last  breakfast  that  I'll  ever  have  to  get  you," 
meditated  Nichola,  turning  her  back  on  me.  The 
impudent  old  woman  believes  because  she  is  four 
years  younger  than  I  that  she  is  able  to  look  after  me. 
I  cannot  understand  such  self-sufficiency.  I  am 
wholly  able  to  look  after  myself. 

Pelleas  and  I  dreamed  all  that  night  of  what  the 
morrow  held  for  us.  We  determined  to  take  a  little 
luncheon  and,  going  straight  to  the  beach  and  as 
near  to  the  water  as  possible,  lie  there  in  the  sand  the 
whole  day  long. 

"And  build  sand  houses  and  caves  with  passages 
sidewise"  said  Pelleas  with  determination  and  as  if 
he  were  seven. 

"And  watch  the  clouds  and  the  gulls,"  said  I. 

"And  find  a  big  wave  away  out  and  follow  it  till 
it  comes  in,"  Pelleas  added. 

"And  let  the  sand  run  through  our  fingers  —  O, 
Pelleas,"  I  cried,  "I  think  it  will  make  us  young." 


120  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

So  the  sea  spoke  to  us  and  we  were  wild  for  that 
first  cool  salt  breath  of  it,  and  the  glare  and  the  gray 
and  the  boom  of  the  surf.  But  Nichola,  to  whom 
the  sea  is  the  sea,  bade  us  good-bye  next  morning  with 
no  sign  of  relenting  in  her  judgment  on  us. 

"Well  packed  with  flannel  ?"  she  wanted  to  know. 
And  we  went  out  in  the  street  feeling  like  disobedient 
children,  undeserving  of  the  small,  suggestive  parcel 
of  lunch  which  at  the  last  moment  she  thrust  in  our 
hands. 

"After  all,"  Pelleas  said,  "what  is  it  to  Nichola 
if  we  get  drowned  or  run  over?" 

"Nothing,"  we  agreed  with  ungrateful  determina 
tion. 

Yet  when  we  reached  our  station  we  had  become 
so  absorbed  in  Little  Invalid  that  the  sea  had  almost 
to  pluck  us  by  the  sleeve  before  we  remembered. 

It  was  early  for  guests  at  the  hotel  and  but  few  were 
on  the  veranda.  Little  Invalid  was  lifted  from  her 
carriage  and  placed  in  a  rocking-chair  while  the 
old-young  married  people  went  in  the  office.  And 
when  Pelleas  suggested  that  I  rest  before  we  go  down 
to  the  beach  I  gladly  assented  and  sat  with  him  beside 
the  little  creature,  who  welcomed  me  with  a  shy  smile. 
She  was  so  like  a  bird  that  I  had  almost  expected  her 
to  vanish  at  my  approach;  and  when  she  did  not 
do  so  the  temptation  to  talk  with  her  was  like  the 
desire  to  feed  a  bird  with  crumbs  from  my  hand. 


THE   HONEYMOON  121 

"It  is  pleasant  to  be  near  the  sea  again,"  I  said  to 
her,  by  way  of  crumbs. 

Her  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  the  far  blue  and  they 
widened  as  she  turned  to  me. 

"'Again'  ?"  she  repeated.  "I  haven't  ever  seen  it 
before,  ma'am." 

"You  have  not  ?"  I  said.  "What  a  sorrow  to  live 
far  from  the  sea." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  live  in  New  York  — we  all 
three  have  lived  in  New  York  always  —  but  I  never 
saw  anything  of  the  sea,  only  from  the  Battery. 
None  of  us  has  but  Henny.  Henny  has  been  to 
Staten  Island." 

I  was  silent  in  sheer  bewilderment.  Then  it  was 
true;  there  are  people  living  in  New  York  who  have 
never  seen  the  sea. 

Something  else  trembled  on  Little  Invalid's  lips 
and  out  it  came,  hesitating. 

"Bessie  an'  Henny's  married  last  week,"  she  im 
parted  shyly,  touching  a  great  coloured  button  pic 
ture  of  Bessie  upon  her  waist.  "This  is  their  honey 


moon." 


"O,"  I  observed,  brightening,  "then  you  will  be 
here  for  some  time.  I  am  so  glad." 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"O,  no,  ma'am,"  she  answered,  "we're  going 
back  to-night.  This  is  Henny's  day  off,  but  Bessie, 


122  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

she  wouldn't  come  without  me.  She's  my  sister,"  said 
Little  Invalid  proudly;  "she  paid  my  way  herself." 

Was  it  not  wonderful  for  an  old  woman  whose 
interests  are  supposed  to  be  confined  to  draughts  and 
diets  to  be  admitted  to  such  a  situation  as  this  ?  I 
was  still  speechless  with  the  delight  of  it  when  the 
old-young  married  people  came  outside. 

Bessie,  the  sister  to  Little  Invalid  and  the  bride  of  a 
week,  was  a  gentle,  worn  little  woman  in  the  thirties, 
of  shabby  neatness,  and  nervous  hands  wide  and 
pink  at  the  knuckles,  and  a  smile  that  was  like  the 
gravity  of  another.  "Henny"  —  I  perceive  that 
my  analogy  extends  farther  and  that  some  men  would 
better  have  been  christened  Nicotine  or  Camphor  — • 
Henny  was  a  bit  younger  than  she,  I  fancied,  and  the 
honest  fellow's  heavy,  patched-looking  hands  and 
quick,  blue  eyes  would  immediately  have  won  my 
heart  even  if  I  had  not  seen  the  clumsy  care  that  he 
bestowed  upon  Little  Invalid,  as  though  a  bear 
should  don  a  nurse's  stripes. 

Pelleas  says  that  I  spoke  to  them  first.  I  dare  say 
I  did,  being  a  very  meddlesome  old  woman,  but  the 
first  thing  that  I  distinctly  recall  was  hearing  Henny 
say:  — 

"Now,  you  run  along  down  the  beach,  Bess,  an* 
I'll  sit  here  a  spell  with  Phenie!" 

"I'm  sure  I'd  be  all  right  all  alone,"  protested 
Little  Invalid  feebly,  looking  nervously  about  at  the 


THE   HONEYMOON  123 

fast-gathering  groups  of  chattering  people.  How 
ever  Bessie  and  Henny  seemed  to  know  very  much 
better  than  this,  and  with  her  smile  that  was  like 
gravity  Bessie  moved  reluctantly  away. 

Fancy  that  situation.  Little  Invalid  could  not 
be  carried  to  the  sands,  and  those  two  old-young 
married  people  meant  to  spend  their  "honeymoon" 
in  taking  turns  at  visiting  the  beach.  I  looked  at 
Pelleas  and  his  face  made  the  expression  which 
means  an  alarm,  for  something  to  be  done  at  once. 

"Why,"  I  asked  casually,  "don't  you  both  go  down 
to  the  beach  and  let  us  sit  here  awhile  ? "  For  to  tell 
the  truth  the  journey  by  the  train  had  tired  me 
more  than  I  cared  to  confess. 

I  remember  how  Pelleas  once  sent  two  incredibly 
dirty  little  boys  into  the  circus  at  the  Garden,  and 
save  then  I  really  think  that  I  never  saw  such  sudden 
happiness  in  the  face  of  any  one. 

"  Were  —  were  you  goin'  to  sit  here  anyway, 
ma'am?"  Bessie  asked,  trying  as  heroically  to  con 
ceal  her  joy  as  if  it  had  been  tears. 

"Yes,"  I  assured  her  shamelessly,  and  really  I 
was  over-tired.  "Stay  as  long  as  ever  you  like,"  I 
said. 

"O,  ma'am,"  said  Henny  with  shining  eyes, 
"thank  you!  And  thank  you,  sir!" 

"Pooh!"  said  Pelleas  gruffly  and  thrust  my  sun 
shade  in  his  hands. 


124  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Off  they  went  down  the  beach,  Shabby  Neatness 
hanging  on  her  husband's  arm  in  a  fashion  which  I 
cannot  call  deplorable,  and  her  husband  looking 
down  at  her  adoringly.  Before  they  disappeared  past 
the  pavilion  we  all  waved  our  hands.  And  then  to 
my  amazement  I  saw  tears  on  the  face  of  Little 
Invalid. 

"O,  ma'am,"  she  said,  her  lips  trembling,  "you 
don't  know  what  this  will  mean  to  them  —  you  don't 
know!" 

"Let  me  see  your  book,  my  dear,"  I  said  hastily, 
ashamed  enough  to  be  praised  for  indulging  my  own 
desire  to  rest. 

She  handed  the  distinguished-looking  little  volume 
and  I  saw  that  it  was  a  very  bouquet  of  sea  poems, 
sea  songs,  sea  delight  in  every  form.  Beloved  names 
nodded  to  me  from  the  page  and  beloved  lines  smiled 
up  at  me. 

"The  settlement  lady  lief  me  take  it,"  said  Little 
Invalid. 

Then  began  an  hour  whose  joy  Pelleas  and  I  love 
to  remember.  It  would  have  been  pleasure  merely 
to  sit  in  that  veranda  corner  within  sound  of  the 
sea  and  to  hear  Pelleas  read  those  magic  words ;  but 
we  had  a  new  and  unexpected  joy  in  the  response  of 
this  untutored  little  maid  who  was  as  eager  as  were 
we.  With  her  eyes  now  on  the  sea,  now  on  the  face 
of  Pelleas  as  he  read,  now  turned  to  me  with  the  swift 


THE   HONEYMOON  125 

surprise  of  something  that  his  voice  held  for  her,  she 
sat  breathlessly  between  us;  and  sometimes  when  a 
passage  had  to  be  explained  her  eyes  were  like  the 
sea  itself  with  the  sun  penetrating  to  its  unsounded 
heart. 

"Oh,"  she  would  say,  "was  it  all  there  all  the  time 
—  was  it  ?  I  read  it  alone  but  I  didn't  know  it  was 
like  this!" 

It  puzzled  her  to  find  that  what  we  were  reading 
had  been  known  and  loved  by  us  for  very  long. 

"  Did  the  settlement  lady  lief  you  have  the  book, 
too?"  she  asked  finally. 

"No,"  we  told  her,  "we  have  these  things  in  other 
books,  ourselves." 

"Why,  I  thought,"  she  said  then  in  bewilderment, 
"that  there  was  only  one  book  of  every  kind.  And 
I  thought  how  grand  for  me  to  have  this  one,  and 
that  I'd  ought  to  lend  it  to  people  who  wouldn't 
ever  see  it  if  I  didn't.  Is  there  other  ones  like  it?" 
she  asked. 

Gradually  the  shy  heart  opened  to  us  and  we  spoke 
together  of  the  simple  mysteries  of  earth.  For 
example  Little  Invalid  knew  nothing  of  the  tides 
and  the  moon's  influence,  and  no  triumph  of  modern 
science  could  more  have  amazed  her.  Then  from 
the  terrifying  parlour  of  the  hotel  we  brought  to  her 
pieces  of  coral  and  seaweed,  and  these  she  had 
never  seen  and  she  touched  them  with  reverent 


126  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

fingers.  In  the  parlour  too  was  an  hourglass  filled 
with  shining  sand  —  it  was  like  finding  jewels  in  the 
coal  bin  to  extract  things  of  such  significance  from 
that  temple  of  plush  and  paper  flowers.  She  held 
the  coral  and  the  seaweed  and  the  hourglass  while 
we  went  back  to  the  little  book  or  sat  watching  the 
waves,  gray-green,  like  the  leaves  of  my  moth  gera 
nium. 

In  this  manner  two  hours  had  passed  without  our 
suspecting  when,  flushed  and  breathless,  Bessie  and 
Henny  reappeared.  They  were  very  distressed 
and  frightened  over  having  stayed  so  long  away, 
but  no  degree  of  embarrassment  could  disguise 
their  happy  possession  of  those  two  hours  on  the 
white  beach. 

Pelleas  beamed  on  them  both. 

"Ah,  well,  now,"  he  said,  "we  couldn't  think  of 
going  away  down  there  before  luncheon.  Run 
along  back,  but  mind  that  you  are  here  by  one 
o'clock.  You  are  to  lunch  with  us." 

At  that  my  heart  bounded,  though  I  knew  very  well 
that  Pelleas  had  intended  certain  five  dollars  in  his 
portemonnaie  for  far  other  and  sterner  purposes. 
Yet  it  is  a  great  truth  that  the  other  and  sterner  pur 
poses  are  always  adjusted  in  the  end  and  the  common 
wealth  goes  safely  on  no  matter  how  often  you  divert 
solitary  bills  to  radiant  uses  with  which  they  have  no 
right  to  be  concerned.  Being  I  dare  say  a  very 


THE   HONEYMOON  127 

spendthrift  old  woman  I  cannot  argue  matters  of 
finance,  but  this  one  principle  I  have  often  noted ;  and 
I  venture  to  believe  that  the  people  who  omit  the 
radiant  uses  are  not  after  all  the  best  citizens.  I 
write  this  in  defence  of  Pelleas,  whose  financial 
conscience  troubled  him  for  many  a  day  on  account 
of  that  luncheon. 

So  back  those  old-young  married  people  went  to 
the  beach,  trying  hard,  as  I  could  see,  not  to  appear 
too  delighted  lest  Little  Invalid  feel  herself  a  burden 
to  us  all.  And  when  they  returned  at  one  o'clock 
with  bright  eyes  and  cheeks  already  beginning  to 
tan,  Pelleas  marshaled  us  all  to  a  table  by  a  window 
toward  the  sea,  and  a  porter  drew  Little  Invalid's 
chair  beside  us. 

What  a  luncheon  was  that.  Time  was  —  when 
Pelleas  was  still  able  to  model  and  I  to  write  so  as  to 
deceive  a  few  —  that  we  have  sat  at  beautiful  dinner 
tables  with  those  whose  jests  we  knew  that  we  should 
read  later,  if  we  outlived  them,  set  in  the  bezel  of  a 
chapter  of  their  biographies  —  and  such  a  dinner  is 
likely  to  give  one  a  delicious  historic  feeling  while  one 
is  yet  pleasantly  the  contemporary  of  the  entree. 
Time  has  been  too  when  a  few  of  us  have  sat  about  a 
simple  board  thankful  for  the  miracle  of  that  com 
panionship.  But  save  the  dinners  which  Pelleas 
and  I  have  celebrated  alone  I  think  that  there  never 
was  another  such  dinner  in  our  history.  When  his 


128  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

first  embarrassment  was  gone  we  found  that  Henny 
had  a  quiet  drollery  which  delighted  us  and  caused 
his  wife's  eyes  to  light  adoringly.  They  said  little 
about  themselves ;  indeed,  save  for  the  confidences  of 
Little  Invalid,  we  knew  when  we  parted  nothing 
whatever  about  them,  and  yet  we  were  the  warmest 
friends.  However,  it  was  enough  to  have  been  let 
into  that  honeymoon  secret. 

And  what  a  morning  had  those  two  had.  I  can 
not  begin  to  recount  what  experiences  had  been 
theirs  with  great  waves  that  had  overtaken  them, 
with  dogs  that  had  gone  in  after  shingles,  and 
with  smooth  stones  and  "angel-wing"  shells  and 
hot  peanuts  of  which  they  had  brought  a  share  to 
Little  Invalid.  I  cannot  recall  what  strange  people 
they  had  met  and  remembered.  Above  all  I  can 
not  tell  you  how  they  had  listened  to  that  solemn 
beat  and  roar,  and  would  try  to  make  us  know 
its  message  —  of  course  they  did  not  know  that 
this  was  what  they  tried  to  tell  us,  but  Pelleas 
and  I  understood  well  enough. 

After  luncheon  when  Little  Invalid  was  back  on 
the  veranda,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  the  unwonted 
excitement  —  it  was  her  first  dinner  in  a  real  hotel, 
she  told  me  —  Pelleas  leaned  against  a  pillar  with  an 
exaggerated  air  which  I  could  not  fathom,  until :  — 

"Really,"  he  said,  "I'm  so  very  sleepy  that  I'm 
going  to  settle  myself  in  this  big  chair  for  a  doze. 


THE  HONEYMOON  129 

Don't  you  want  to  rest  for  a  little,  Etarre  ?  Sup 
pose  that  we  three  all  have  a  long  quiet  nap  and  you 
two  young  people  get  back  to  the  beach  for  a  while 
so  as  not  to  bother  us." 

Bless  Pelleas.  And  I  confess  that  I  was  not  un 
willing  to  rest.  So  the  two  went  away  again,  and  I 
believe  that  Pelleas  did  sleep;  but  Little  Invalid 
and  I,  though  we  pretended  to  be  asleep,  sat  with  our 
heads  turned  away  from  each  other,  staring  out  to 
sea.  I  do  not  know  how  it  may  have  been  with  her, 
but  as  for  me  I  was  happy  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  encouragement  of  that  noisy  veranda.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  look  of  the  sea  line,  pricked  with  sails,  or 
the  mere  rough,  indifferent  touch  of  the  salt  wind. 

Presently  we  all  pretended  to  wake  and  talk  a  little; 
and  then  we  saw  Bessie  and  Henny  coming  back  and 
at  a  sign  from  Pelleas  we  all  shut  our  eyes  again, 
though  Pelleas  appeared  to  awake  very  crossly  and 
bade  them  go  back  and  not  disturb  us  unless  they 
wanted  to  be  great  nuisances.  So  they  ran  back,  and 
we  laughed  at  them  in  secret,  and  Little  Invalid  sat 
happily  holding  the  mysterious  hourglass.  And 
then  a  band  began  to  play  in  the  pavilion  —  a  dread 
ful  band  I  thought  until  I  saw  the  ecstatic  delight  of 
Little  Invalid,  whereupon  I  discovered  that  there 
was  a  lilt  in  its  clamour. 

When  the  bathers  went  in  we  found  a  glass  for 
her,  and  she  spent  a  pleasant  half  hour  watching  the 


130  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

ropes.  And  twice  more  Bessie  and  Henny  came  back 
and  both  times  we  pretended  to  be  asleep,  and  Pelleas 
awoke  more  testily  each  time  and  scolded  them  back. 
The  second  time  he  thrust  something  in  their  hands. 

"Just  pitch  this  in  the  ocean,"  he  said  crossly, 
"  or  eat  it  up.  It  worries  me." 

Secretly  I  looked  from  one  eye  and  saw  Nichola's 
lunch  disappearing. 

When  they  came  back  at  six  o'clock  we  consented 
to  be  awake,  for  it  was  time  for  Pelleas  and  me  to 
go  home.  They  stood  before  us  trying  with  pleasant 
awkwardness  to  make  us  know  various  things,  and 
Little  Invalid  kept  tightly  hold  of  my  fingers.  When 
I  bent  to  kiss  her  good-bye  she  pressed  something  in 
my  hand,  and  it  was  the  great  coloured  button- 
picture  of  Bessie. 

"Keep  it,"  she  said,  "to  remember  us  by.  There 
ain't  nothink  else  fit  to  give  you !" 

Henny  handed  me  to  the  carriage  in  an  anguish  of 
polite  anxiety,  and  they  all  three  waved  their  hands 
so  long  as  we  could  see  them.  They  were  to  stay 
two  hours  longer  and  finish  that  honeymoon. 

As  Pelleas  and  I  drove  up  the  long  street,  our 
backs  to  the  sea,  we  turned  for  one  look  at  the  mov 
ing  gold  of  it  under  the  falling  sun.  We  felt  its  breath 
in  our  faces  for  the  last  time  —  well,  who  knows  ? 
When  one  is  seventy  every  time  may  be  the  last  time, 
though  indeed  I  should  not  have  been  surprised  to 


THE   HONEYMOON  131 

find  us  both  sea-bathing  before  the  Summer  was 
over. 

Pelleas  looked  at  me  with  troubled  eyes. 

"Etarre,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid  that  we  have  in 
dulged  ourselves  shamefully  to-day." 

"You  mean  about  the  luncheon  party?"  I 
asked. 

"Yes,  that,"  he  said,  "and  then  we  came  down 
here  for  the  sea  to  do  us  good  and  we  haven't  been 
near  the  sea." 

"No,"  I  said,  "we  haven't." 

"We  have  simply  amused  ourselves  all  day  long," 
he  finished  disgustedly. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "we  have." 

But  as  the  train  drew  over  the  salt  marshes  I 
smiled  at  this  disgust  of  Pelleas',  smiled  until  my 
hand  crept  down  and  found  his  under  his  hat. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  seeing  my  smile. 

"I've  found  out  something,"  I  told  him. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

"It  wasn't  their  honeymoon  so  much,"  I  said  tri 
umphantly,  "as  it  was  ours." 

As  we  came  through  the  long  cross  street  toward 
our  house  we  had  a  glimpse  of  Nichola  beside  our 
area  gate,  watching  for  us.  But  when  we  reached 
the  gate  she  was  not  in  sight  and  though  we  waited 
for  a  moment  on  our  steps  she  did  not  come  to  open 
the  door.  It  was  not  until  Pelleas  had  lighted  the 


132  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

fire  in  the  drawing-room  and  we  sat  before  it  that  we 
heard  her  coming  up  the  stairs. 

She  brought  us  tea,  neither  volunteering  a  word  of 
greeting  nor,  save  by  a  word  and  with  averted  eyes, 
responding  to  ours.  But  as  she  was  leaving  the  room 
she  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway. 

"How'd  your  lunch  go?"  she  demanded. 

Instantly  Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other  — 
we  never  can  remember  not  to  do  that.  What  had 
Nichola  given  us  in  that  lunch  ? 

"Why,  Nichola,"  said  I,  "Nichola,  your  lunches 
are  always  —  that  is,  I  never  knew  your  lunches 
not  to  be  — " 

"You  are  a  wonderful  cook,  you  know,  Nichola," 
said  Pelleas  earnestly. 

Nichola  looked  down  upon  us,  her  little  eyes  wink 
ing  fast,  and  she  nodded  her  old  gray  head. 

"Yah!"  she  said,  "what  I  put  in  it  was  fruit  an' 
crackers.  An'  I  see  you've  give  it  away." 

"O,  Nichola — "  we  began.  But  as  captain  of 
the  moment  she  would  not  sally  forth  to  parley. 

"There's  your  tea,"  she  cut  us  short;  "drink  it — 
if  you  ain't  drownded  an'  your  shades  settin'  here 
instead." 

Pelleas  looked  up  bravely. 

"I'm  not  sure  about  myself,  Nichola,"  he  said 
gently;  "one  never  is  sure  about  one's  self,  you  know. 
But  this  lady  is  real,  I  do  assure  you!" 


THE   HONEYMOON  133 

"And  this,  Nichola,"  said  I,  gayly,  "I  protest  is  a 
real  gentleman !" 

On  which  we  two  laughed  in  each  other's  eyes; 
and  Nichola,  that  grim  old  woman,  said  sharply :  — 

"Our  Lady  knows  you  talk  enough  nonsense  to 
be  new-married,  the  both." 

She  clicked  the  portiere  rings,  like  little  teeth. 
And  at  her  words  Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other 
in  abashment.  Does  all  the  world,  like  Nichola, 
guess  at  our  long  honeymoon  ? 


VII 

THE    OTHER  TWO 

PELLEAS  has  a  little  niece  who  when  she  sits  in  my 
room  in  the  sun  combing  her  brown  hair  looks  like  a 
mermaid.  I  told  her  this  when  on  the  morning  after 
our  return  from  the  seashore  she  arrived  to  make 
us  a  visit  and  came  to  sit  in  my  sunny  window  with 
her  hair  all  about  her  shoulders  drying  from  its 
fragrant  bath. 

"Lisa,"  I  said,  for  the  sea  was  still  in  my  soul, 
"if  I  might  tie  your  hair  back  with  a  rainbow  and 
set  you  on  a  tall  green  and  white  wave  you  would  be 
a  mermaid.  And  by  the  way,"  I  added,  "perhaps 
you  can  tell  me  something  about  which  I  have  always 
wondered:  How  the  mermaids  in  the  sea  pictures 
keep  their  hair  so  dry?" 

For  answer  Lisa  smiled  absently  and  spread  a  soft 
strand  into  shining  meshes  and  regarded  it  medita 
tively  and  sighed  dolorously.  But  Lisa  was  twenty, 
and  Twenty  is  both  meditative  and  dolorous,  so  I 
went  on  tranquilly  laying  satchets  in  my  old  lace;  for 
at  seventy  I  have  sunk  some  of  my  meditation  and 
all  my  dolour  in  such  little  joys  as  arranging  my  one 

134 


THE   OTHER   TWO  135 

box  of  rare  old  lace.     That  seems  a  small  lesson  for 
life  to  have  taught,  and  yet  it  was  hard  to  learn. 

"I  rather  think  she  was  Latona's  brood, 
And  that  Apollo  courted  her  bright  hair  —  " 

I  was  murmuring,  when  Lisa  said :  — 
"Aunt  Etarre,  were  you  ever  in  love  ?" 
Is  it  not  notable  what  fragrance  floats  in  the  room 
when   that   question   is   asked  ?     Of  course   it    may 
have  been  the  orris  in  my  hands,  but  I  think  that  it 
was  more  than  this. 

"If  forty-nine  and  three  quarters  years  of  being  in 
love,"  I  reminded  her,  "would  seem  to  you  fair 
proof  that  I  — " 

"O,  that  kind,"  Lisa  said  vaguely.  "But  I  mean," 
she  presently  went  on,  "were  you  ever  in  love  so 
that  you  were  miserable  about  everything  else,  and 
you  thought  all  the  time  that  somebody  couldn't 
possibly  love  you;  and  so  that  seeing  the  postman 
made  your  heart  beat  the  way  it  used  to  at  school 
exhibition,  and  so  that  you  kept  the  paper  that  came 
around  flowers.  .  .  ." 

Lisa  saw  me  smiling  —  not  at  her,  Heaven  for 
bid  —  but  at  the  great  collection  of  rubbish  in  the 
world  saved  because  somebody  beloved  has  touched 
it,  or  has  seen  it,  or  has  been  with  one  when  one  was 
wearing  it. 

"I  mean  were  you  ever  in  love  like  that,  Aunt 
Etarre  —  were  you  ? "  Lisa  put  it  wistfully. 


136  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

"Ah,  well  now,  yes  indeed,"  I  answered;  "do  you 
think  that  my  hair  was  always  straight  on  rainy  days, 
as  it  is  now  ?" 

Lisa  sighed  again,  even  more  dolorously,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"It  couldn't  have  been  the  same,"  she  murmured 
decidedly. 

Poor,  dear  Twenty,  who  never  will  believe  that  Sev 
enty  could  have  been  "the  same."  But  I  forgot 
to  sigh  for  this,  so  concerned  I  was  at  this  breaking 
of  Lisa's  reticence,  that  enviable  flowery  armour  of 
young  womanhood.  So  I  waited,  folding  and  re 
folding  my  Mechlin,  until  I  had  won  her  confidence. 

He  was,  it  developed,  a  blessed  young  lawyer,  with 
very  long  lashes  and  a  high  sense  of  honour  inex 
tricably  confused  with  lofty  ideals  and  ambitions 
and  a  most  beautiful  manner.  He  was,  in  fact, 
young  Eric  Chartres,  grandnephew  to  my  dear 
Madame  Sally  Chartres.  The  sole  cloud  was  the 
objection  of  Dudley  Manners,  Lisa's  guardian,  to 
the  friendship  of  the  two  on  the  hackneyed  ground 
of  their  youth;  for  Eric,  I  absently  reckoned  it 
aloud,  was  one  year  and  five  months  older  than  Lisa. 

"But  it  isn't  as  if  he  hadn't  seen  the  world," 
Lisa  said  magnificently.  "He  has  been  graduated 
from  college  a  year,  and  he  has  been  abroad  twice  — 
once  when  he  was  nine,  and  then  for  two  months 
last  Summer.  And  he  has  read  everything  —  O 


THE   OTHER  TWO  137 

Aunt  Etarre,"  said  Lisa,  "and  then  think  of  his 
loving  me." 

"When  am  I  going  to  meet  him  ?"  I  asked,  having 
exchanged  with  him  only  a  word  in  a  crowded  room 
or  two.  As  I  expected  Lisa  flung  herself  down  at 
my  knee  and  laid  her  hands  over  the  old  Mechlin. 

"  O  would  you  —  would  you  ?  Uncle  Dudley 
said  he  would  trust  me  wholly  to  you  and  Uncle 
Pelleas.  Might  he  call  —  might  he  come  this  after 
noon  ?" 

"The  telephone,"  said  I,  "is  on  the  landing." 

Below  stairs  I  told  Pelleas  about  it  and  he  sighed 
and  looked  in  the  fire  and  said,  "  Bless  me,  I  used  to 
wheel  her  mother  about  in  a  go-cart!" 

"Pelleas,"  said  I,  thoughtfully,  "I  have  seen 
that  young  Eric  Chartres  only  once  or  twice  in  a 
crowded  room,  but  do  you  know  that  I  thought  he 
looks  a  little  —  just  a  very  little  —  as  you  looked 
at  his  age?" 

"Does  he  really?"  Pelleas  asked,  vastly  pleased, 
and  "Pooh!"  he  instantly  added  to  prove  how  little 
vanity  he  has. 

"He  does,"  I  insisted;  "the  first  time  I  caught 
sight  of  him  I  could  have  believed  — " 

Pelleas  turned  to  me  with  a  look  almost  startled. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  confessed,  "more  than  once 
when  I  have  looked  at  Lisa  —  especially  Lisa  in 
that  gown  with  flowers  in  and  the  spingley  things 


138  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

that  shine,"  described  Pelleas  laboriously,  —  "I  could 
almost  have  thought  that  it  was  you  as  you  used  to 
be,  Etarre.  Yes  —  really.  There  is  something 
about  the  way  that  she  turns  her  head  — " 

"And  so  Eric  Chartres  may  call  ?"  said  I  eagerly, 
with  nothing  but  certainty. 

"Of  course  he  may  call,"  Pelleas  said  heartily; 
"  any  fine  fellow  who  is  honestly  in  love  is  as  welcome 
here  as  a  king." 

"Then,"  I  continued,  making  a  base  advantage 
of  his  enthusiasm,  "let  us  go  down  together  and  tell 
Nichola  to  have  tea,  served  in  her  best  fashion,  at 
five  this  afternoon." 

Pelleas  looked  doubtful.  "She's  making  raised 
doughnuts,"  he  demurred. 

"But,"  I  reasoned,  "her  tea  rose  bloomed  yester 
day.  She  is  bound  to  believe  in  a  beautiful  thing  or 
two.  Let  us  risk  it." 

Nichola  was  picking  her  doughnuts  from  the  hot 
lard  as  delicately  as  if  she  had  been  selecting  violets 
for  essences  near  her  native  Capri.  She  did  not  deign 
to  turn  or  to  speak  as  we  slipped  in  at  the  door. 
Even  when  Pelleas  had  put  the  case  to  her,  diplo 
matically  dwelling  on  the  lightness  of  the  delicacies 
desired,  she  did  not  reply  until  she  had  brought  to 
the  table  a  colander  of  her  hot  brown  dainties. 
Then  she  rested  her  hands  on  each  side  of  the  pan 
and  leaned  forward.  As  I  looked  at  her,  her  gray 


THE   OTHER   TWO  139 

hair  brushed  smoothly  back  from  her  rugged  face, 
her  little  eyes  quick-winking  —  as  if  the  air  were 
filled  with  dust  —  I  caught  on  her  face  an  expression 
which  I  have  seldom  seen  there :  a  look  as  if  her 
features  were  momentarily  out  of  drawing;  as  if, 
say,  old  Nichola's  face  were  printed  on  cloth  and 
the  cloth  had  been  twitched  a  bit  awry. 

"Who's  a-comin'?"  she  demanded;  but  if  Nich- 
ola  were  to  ask  to  see  our  visiting  list  I  think  that  we 
should  hardly  deny  her. 

"It's  a  friend  of  Miss  Lisa's,"  Pelleas  explained. 

"Man?"  Nichola  inquired  grimly. 

Pelleas  admitted  it.  I,  now  fancying  myself  wiser 
in  the  conceits  of  Nichola,  ventured  something  else. 

"I  think,  Nichola,"  I  said,  "that  they  —  that  he 
—  that  they  —  and  I  thought  if  you  had  some 
absolutely  simple  sandwiches  — " 

"Yah!"  Nichola  exclaimed.  "So  there's  to  be 
two  pair  o'  you !" 

Then  something  wonderful  happened.  Nichola 
slipped  both  hands  beneath  her  floury  apron  and 
rolled  up  her  arms  in  its  calico  length  and  put  her 
head  on  one  side  and  smiled  —  such  a  strange, 
crinkled  smile  interfering  with  all  her  worn  features 
at  once. 

"My  father  had  many  goats,"  Nichola  said  with 
out  warning,  "and  one  Summer  I  went  with  him  to 
buy  more,  though  that  was  before  my  bones  were  all 


i4o  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

turned  to  cracked  iron,  you  may  be  sure.  And  there 
was  a  young  shepherd — " 

At  that  magic  moment  a  sharp  snapping  and 
crackling  came  from  the  kettle,  and  Nichola  wheeled 
with  a  frown. 

"So!"  she  cried  angrily,  "you  come  down  here, 
letting  my  lard  get  too  hot  to  go  near  to !  Is  it  not 
that  I  am  baking  ?  And  as  for  tea,  it  may  be  that 
there  isn't  any  tea.  Go  away !  " 

"Pelleas,"  said  I,  as  we  climbed  the  stairs,  "if  it 
were  not  that  Nichola  is  too  old  to  work  anywhere 
else  —  " 

"I  know  it,"  Pelleas  nodded  frowning. 

This  is  the  dialogue  in  which  we  take  part  after 
each  of  Nichola's  daily  impertinences. 

At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  I  was  roused  from 
my  drowsihead  on  hearing  a  little  tap  at  my  door. 
Lisa  came  in,  her  face  flushed,  her  blue  embroidered 
frock  shimmering  and  ruffling  to  her  feet. 

"O  Aunt  Etarre,"  she  begged,  "put  on  your 
gray  gown  and  your  Mechlin  fichu,  will  you  ?  And 
come  down .  right  away  —  well,  almost  right  away," 
she  added  naively. 

"I  will  come  presently,"  I  assured  her,  as  if  I  did 
not  understand ;  and  then  the  bell  rang  and  Lisa,  her 
eyes  like  stars,  tapped  down  the  stairs. 

I  was  a  long  time  about  my  dressing.  The  gray 
grosgrain  silk  is  for  very  special  occasions,  and  I  had 


THE   OTHER   TWO  141 

not  worn  my  Mechlin  collar  since  Pelleas'  birthday 
nearly  a  year  ago.  When  I  had  them  both  on 
and  my  silver  comb  in  my  hair  I  heard  Nichola's 
step  outside  my  door.  I  bade  her  enter,  but  she 
merely  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold. 

"Che!"  she  said  grimly.  "I  hope,  mem,  you've 
got  your  neck  well  packed  with  flannel  under  that 
slimpsey  stuff.  One  would  say  you  dress  lightly, 
lightly  for  fear  of  missing  the  rheumatism." 

She  had  gone  crookedly  down  the  passage  before 
I  had  opportunity  to  remention  the  tea.  In  a 
moment  she  came  back,  threw  open  my  door  and 
flung  something  on  the  bed. 

"There,"  she  said  crossly,  "put  it  on!  No  need 
to  dress  as  if  you  was  ninety." 

And  there  on  my  pillow  I  saw  as  she  hastened  away 
the  great  pink  tea  rose  that  had  blossomed  only 
that  day  from  the  rose  plant  in  her  own  window 
where  she  had  tended  it  for  months. 

Pelleas  was  in  the  library  across  the  hall  from  the 
drawing-room  where  those  two  dear  little  people  were. 
I  opened  the  library  door  softly  and  went  in  and 
stood  close  beside  his  chair  before  he  turned.  Pelleas 
is  not  in  the  least  deaf,  as  we  both  know ;  he  is  simply 
no  longer  distracted  by  small,  unnecessary  noises. 

He  looked  up  smiling  and  then  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  suddenly  caught  my  hands  and  held  me  at  arm's 
length  and  bade  me  turn  about  slowly,  slowly  so  that 


142  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

he  might  see.  One  would  think  that  I  had  never 
worn  my  old  grosgrain  and  my  Mechlin.  I  told  him 
so,  though  I  can  never  conceal  delight.  And  we 
talked  a  little  about  the  first  night  that  I  had  worn  it 
—  O,  so  many  years  before,  and  about  many  things 
in  which  the  very  sunshine  of  the  room  had  no  part 
because  these  things  were  so  much  more  luminous. 

At  last  when  the  clock  struck  five  we  crossed  the 
hall  to  the  drawing-room  door.  At  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  Pelleas  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"Do  you  remember,  Etarre,"  he  said,  "the  night 
that  I  ' spoke'  to  your  father,  and  you  waited  in  the 
drawing-room,  half  dead  with  alarm,  as  you  made 
me  believe  ?" 

"Ah,  yes,"  I  cried,  "and  how  my  father  used  to 
say  that  you  won  his  heart  by  your  very  beginning. 
'I  can't  talk  about  it,  sir,'  you  said,  'but  you  see,  sir, 
you  can ;  and  will  you  ? " 

We  laughed  together  as  we  are  never  tired  of  laugh 
ing  tenderly  over  that,  and  I  remembered  tenderly  too 
the  old  blue  and  white  drawing-room  with  the  spindle- 
legged  chairs  and  the  stiff  curtains  where  I  had 
waited  breathlessly  that  night  in  my  flowered  delaine 
dress,  while  Pelleas  "spoke"  to  father.  I  was 
trembling  when  he  came  back,  I  recall,  and  he  took 
me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  away  my  fear.  And 
some  way  the  thought  of  the  girl  in  the  flowered  de 
laine  dress  who  was  I  and  of  the  eager,  buoyant 


THE   OTHER   TWO  143 

young  lad  who  was  Pelleas  must  have  shone  in  the 
faces  of  us  both  when  we  entered  our  drawing-room 
now,  reverently,  as  if  to  meet  our  long-gone  selves. 

He  was  a  fine,  handsome  fellow,  —  Eric  Chartres, 
this  young  lover  of  Lisa's,  and  their  sweet  confusions 
and  dignities  were  enchanting.  Pelleas  and  I  sat 
on  the  red  sofa  and  beamed  at  them,  and  the  little 
fire  tossed  and  leaped  on  the  hearth,  and  the  shadows 
gathered  in  the  corners  and  fell  upon  us;  and  on 
Lisa  and  her  lover  the  firelight  rested. 

What  a  wonderful  hour  it  was  for  our  plain  draw 
ing-room,  for  so  many  years  doomed  to  be  merely 
the  home  of  talk  about  war  and  rumours  of  war  and 
relatives  and  their  colourless  doings  and  even  about 
matches  made  for  shadowy  lovers  whom  it  never 
might  see.  And  now  the  room  was  called  on  to 
harbour  Young  Love  itself.  No  wonder  that  the 
sober  bindings  on  the  shelves  tried  in  the  yellow  fire 
light  to  give  news  from  their  own  storied  hearts  that 
beat  with  the  hearts  of  other  lovers.  No  wonder 
that  the  flowers  on  the  mantel  looked  perilously  like 
a  bridal  wreath.  At  last,  at  last  the  poor  room  long 
deprived  of  its  brightest  uses  was  habited  by  Young 
Love. 

Presently  Pelleas  startled  me  from  my  reverie. 

"  It's  twenty  past  five,"  he  murmured,  "  and  no  tea." 

So  Nichola  intended  to  do  as  she  pleased,  and  she 
was  pleased  to  send  no  tea  at  all,  and  the  rose  was 


144  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND  .  ETARRE 

but  a  sop  to  Cerbera.  And  I  had  so  counted  on 
seeing  those  young  lovers  in  the  delicate  intimacy  of 
their  first  tea.  But  even  in  that  moment  of  my  dis 
appointment  the  stair  door  creaked  and  then  I  heard 
her  coming  up,  one  step  at  a  time,  so  that  I  knew  her 
to  be  laden  with  the  tray. 

Pelleas  hastened  to  open  the  door  for  her  and  we 
were  both  fain  to  gasp  with  astonishment.  For  in 
Nichola  came  splendid  in  the  newest  and  bluest  of 
dresses  with  —  wonder  of  all !  —  a  white  cap  and 
apron  to  which  only  very  stately  occasions  can  per 
suade  her.  And  when  she  had  set  the  tray  on  the 
table  I  had  much  ado  to  keep  from  grasping  her 
brown  hands.  For  she  had  brought  the  guest-silver, 
my  Royal  Sevres,  my  prettiest  doilies  and  O,  such  thin, 
white,  chicken  sandwiches,  such  odorous  tea  and  thick 
cream,  and  to  crown  all  a  silver  dish  of  bonbons. 

I  tried  to  look  my  gratitude  to  her  and  I  saw  her 
standing  by  the  fire  tranquilly  inspecting  Lisa's 
young  lover  and  pretty  Lisa  herself  who  was  helping 
him  to  place  my  chair.  And  it  may  have  been  a 
trick  of  the  firelight,  but  I  fancied  that  I  detected  on 
Nichola's  face  that  expression  of  the  morning,  as  if 
her  features  were  a  little  out  of  drawing,  by  way  of 
bodying  forth  some  unwonted  thought.  Then  very 
slowly  she  rolled  her  arms  in  her  crisp  white  apron 
as  she  had  done  in  the  morning  and  very  slowly  she 
began  to  speak. 


THE  OTHER  TWO  145 

"My  father  had  many  goats  in  Capri,"  she  said 
again,  "and  one  Summer  I  went  with  him  to  buy 
more.  And  at  noon  my  father  left  me  in  the  valley 
while  he  went  to  look  at  some  hill  flocks.  As  for 
me  I  sat  by  a  tree  to  eat  my  lunch  of  goat's  cheese 
and  bread,  and  a  young  shepherd  of  those  parts 
came  and  brought  me  berries  and  a  little  pat  of  sweet 
butter  and  we  shared  them.  I  did  not  see  him  again, 
but  now  I  have  made  you  a  little  pat  of  sweet  butter," 
said  Nichola,  nodding. 

We  were  all  silent,  and  Pelleas  and  I  were  spell 
bound;  for  it  was  as  if  this  old,  withered,  silent 
woman  had  suddenly  caught  aside  her  robe  and  had 
looked  into  her  own  heart  and  given  us  news  of  its 
ancient  beating.  Old  Nichola  to  have  harboured 
such  an  hour  of  Arcady  as  this !  And  at  that  mo 
ment  she  turned  to  me  with  a  kind  of  fury. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,"  she  cried  terribly,  "why 
sit  there  stock-still  till  the  crumpets  are  stone  cold 
and  the  tea  as  red  as  the  tail  of  a  fox  ?  Eat !" 

She  was  out  of  the  room  like  a  whirlwind  and 
clattering  down  the  stairs.  And  for  a  moment  we 
all  looked  silently  in  each  other's  faces  and  smiled 
a  little  —  but  tenderly,  as  if  some  unknown  lover 
had  lifted  his  head  from  his  grave. 

Thereafter  we  drank  our  tea  very  happily  and 
Lisa's  young  lover,  with  his  whole  heart  in  his  eager 
face,  told  us  quite  simply  of  his  love  for  her  and 


146  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

begged  us  to  help  him.  And  we  all  well-nigh 
laughed  and  cried  together  at  the  bright  business  of 
life. 

When  the  shadows  had  quite  fallen  and  the  young 
lover  was  gone  and  Lisa  had  slipped  away  to  her 
room  to  be  alone,  Pelleas  and  I  sat  long  before  the 
fire.  Nichola's  rose,  fading  in  my  lace,  gave  out  a 
fragrance  to  which  some  influence  in  the  room  was 
akin;  and  we  both  knew. 

I  said:  "Pelleas,  I  have  been  remembering  that 
morning  long  ago  at  Miss  Deborah  Ware's  —  and 
our  Fountain  of  Gardens.  When  we  were  twanty- 
something,  like  Lisa  and  Eric." 

"But  so  have  I  been  thinking  of  that!"  Pelleas 
cried.  And  we  nodded,  smiling,  for  we  love  to  have 
that  happen.  Perhaps  it  makes  us  momentarily 
believe  that  we  are  each  other,  and  no  aid  asked  of 
science  to  bring  it  about.  But  now  as  I  looked  at 
him  I  momentarily  believed  something  else  as  well. 

"  Pelleas,"  I  began,  "  I  am  not  sure  —  are  you  sure  ? 
Has  any  one  else  really  been  here  in  the  room,  be 
sides  us  ?  Were  Lisa  and  Eric  really  here  —  or  have 
we  only  been  remembering?" 

Pelleas  was  looking  in  the  fire  and  he  did  not  meet 
my  eyes. 

"Lisa  looks  uncommonly  like  you,  you  know,"  he 
said. 

"And    that    young    Eric    Chartres  —  O,    indeed 


THE   OTHER   TWO  147 

Pelleas,  he  is  not  unlike  you  as  you  looked  the  very 
night  that  you  'spoke*  to  father.  Dear,"  I  said, 
"perhaps  those  two  have  not  been  here  at  all.  Per 
haps  it  was  we  ourselves" 

He  looked  at  me  swiftly;  and  "Pooh!"  said  he 
enigmatically;  but  Pelleas'  doubt  of  charming 
things  is  always  like  belief. 

I  dare  say  many  would  feel  that  what  we  suspect 
is  manifestly  impossible.  Besides,  we  have  never 
actually  admitted  that  we  do  suspect.  But  we  are 
old  and  we  have  seen  much  magic. 


VIII 

A  FOUNTAIN   OF   GARDENS 

INDEED,  to  have  remembered  that  morning  at  Miss 
Deborah  Ware's  was  enough  to  bring  back  to  us  the 
very  youth  of  which  the  morning  was  a  part.  It 
seems  to  Pelleas  and  me  that  most  of  the  beautiful 
things  that  have  come  to  us  have  been  a  part  of  our 
old  age,  as  if  in  a  kind  of  tender  compensation.  But 
that  beautiful  happening  of  our  youth  we  love  to  re 
member,  the  more  because  it  befell  in  the  very  week 
of  our  betrothal.  And  though  our  betrothal  was 
more  than  fifty  years  ago,  I  suppose  to  be  quite  truth 
ful  that  there  is  very  little  about  those  days  that  I 
do  not  recall;  or  if  there  be  any  forgotten  moments 
I  grieve  to  confess  them.  There  are,  however,  I 
find  to  my  amazement,  many  excellent  people  who 
conscientiously  remember  the  dates  of  the  Norman 
Conquest  and  the  fall  of  Constantinople,  and  who  are 
yet  obliged  to  stop  to  think  on  what  day  their  betrothal 
fell.  As  for  me  I  would  far  rather  offend  my  con 
science  in  a  matter  of  Turks  than  in  a  matter  of  love- 
knots. 

On  a  delicate  day  in  May,  Eighteen  Hundred  and 

148 


A  FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  149 

Forty-five,  Pelleas  and  I  were  quite  other  people. 
And  I  do  protest  that  the  lane  where  we  were 
walking  was  different,  too.  I  have  never  seen 
it  since  that  summer;  but  I  cannot  believe  that  it 
now  wears  anything  like  the  same  fabric  of  shadow, 
the  same  curve  of  hedgerow  or  that  season's 
pattern  of  flowers.  The  lane  ran  between  the  Low 
Grounds  and  the  property  of  the  Governor,  on  one 
side  the  thatched  cots  of  the  mill  folk  and  the  woods 
men,  and  on  the  other  the  Governor's  great  mansion, 
a  treasure-house  of  rare  canvas  and  curio.  That 
morning  the  lane  was  a  kind  of  causeway  between 
two  worlds,  and  there  was  no  sterner  boundary  than 
a  hedge  of  early  wild  roses.  I  remember  how,  step 
ping  with  Pelleas  along  that  way  of  sun,  I  loved  him 
for  his  young  strength  and  his  blue  eyes  and  his 
splendid  shoulders  and  for  the  way  he  looked  down 
at  me,  but  I  think  that  he  must  have  loved  me  chiefly 
for  my  gown  of  roses  and  for  the  roses  in  my  hat.  For 
I  took  very  little  account  of  life  save  its  roses  and  I 
must  believe  that  a  sense  of  roses  was  my  most  lov 
able  quality.  We  were  I  recall  occupied  chiefly  in 
gathering  roses  from  the  hedgerow  to  fill  my  reticule. 
"Now,  suppose,"  Pelleas  said,  busy  in  a  corner  of 
green  where  the  bloom  was  thickest,  "suppose  we 
were  to  find  that  the  hedges  go  on  and  never  stop,  and 
that  all  there  is  to  the  world  is  this  lane,  and  that  we 
could  walk  here  forever?" 


150  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

I  nodded.  That  was  very  like  my  conception  of* 
the  world,  and  the  speculation  of  Pelleas  did  not 
impress  me  as  far  wrong. 

"Do  you  wish  this  morning  could  last  forever, 
Etarre,  do  you?"  asked  Pelleas,  looking  down  at 
me. 

"Yes,"  said  I  -truthfully,  "I  do."  I  hope  that 
there  is  no  one  in  the  world  who  could  not  from  his 
soul  say  that  at  least  once  of  some  hour  of  Spring  and 
youth.  In  such  a  moment,  it  is  my  belief,  the  spirit 
is  very  near  entering  upon  its  own  immortality  —  for 
I  have  always** held  that  immortality  must  begin  at 
some  beautiful  moment  in  this  life.  Though  as  for 
me,  at  that  moment,  I  confess  myself  to  have  been 
thinking  of  nothing  more  immortal  than  the  adorable 
way  that  Pelleas  had  of  saying  my  name. 

"But  by  and  by,"  Pelleas  went  on,  "I  think  we 
would  come  to  a  garden.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  love 
story  without  a  garden  ?  And  it  will  be  a  'different* 
garden  from  all  the  rest  —  the  trees  will  be  higher 
and  the  shadows  will  be  made  differently  and  instead 
of  echoes  there  will  be  music.  And  there  will  be 
fountains  —  fountains  everywhere;  and  when  one 
has  gone  in  the  garden  a  fountain  will  spring  up  at 
the  gate  and  no  one  can  get  out  —  ever.  What  do 
you  think  of  that  for  a  garden  ?"  asked  Pelleas. 

"I  think,"  said  I,  "that  the  garden  we  will  come 
to  will  be  Miss  Deborah  Ware's." 


A   FOUNTAIN  OF   GARDENS  151 

For  in  fact  I  was  carrying  a  message  to  Miss  Deb 
orah  Ware,  a  kinswoman  of  my  mother's,  and  I  had 
met  Pelleas  only  by  some  heavenly  chance  as  he 
crossed  the  common. 

"And  who  is  Miss  Deborah  Ware  ?"  asked  Pelleas, 
doubtfully,  as  if  weighing  the  matter  of  entering  her 
garden. 

"She  owns  a  gold  thimble,"  I  explained,  "that 
once  belonged  to  Marie  Antoinette.  She  prefers 
wooden  sabots  to  all  other  shoes.  And  she  paints 
most  beautiful  pictures." 

"Ah,"  said  Pelleas,  enlightened,  "so  that  is  who 
she  is.  And  how  does  she  look,  pray?" 

"I  am  certain  that  she  looks  like  the  Queen  of 
Sheba,"  I  told  him.  "And,  moreover,  all  her  caps 
are  crown-shaped." 

"Now  I  know  how  the  Queen  of  Sheba  looked," 
cried  Pelleas,  triumphantly.  "She  looked  like  the 
crowns  of  Miss  Deborah's  caps.  Do  you  happen  to 
know  what  the  toll  is  to  leave  this  lane  ?" 

As  I  did  not  know  —  did  anybody  ever  know  ?  — 
and  as  we  were  even  then  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  my 
ignorance  was  rebuked  and  I  paid  the  toll  and  I  fancy 
repeated  the  lesson  —  it  was  a  matter  of  honour  to 
the  sun  and  the  wild  roses  not  to  let  it  be  otherwise. 
And  we  crossed  the  West  Meadow  by  the  long  way 
and  at  the  last  —  at  the  very  last,  and  nearly  noon ! 
—  we  reached  the  cottage  where  Miss  Deborah  Ware 


152  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

had  come  to  spend  the  Summer  and  engage  in  the 
unmaidenly  pursuit  of  painting  pictures. 

To  tell  the  truth  our  Summer  community  of  good 
Knickerbocker  folk  were  inclined  to  question  Miss 
Deborah's  good  taste.  Not  that  they  objected  to 
the  paint,  but  the  lack  of  virtue  seemed  to  lie  in  the 
canvas.  If  Miss  Deborah  had  painted  candle- 
shades  or  china  porringers  or  watered  silk  panels  or 
flowerpots,  no  one,  I  think,  would  have  murmured. 
But  when  they  learned  that  she  painted  pictures 
they  spread  and  lifted  their  fans. 

"Miss  Deborah  Ware  would  ape  the  men,"  they 
said  sternly.  And  when  they  saw  her  studio  apron 
made  of  ticking  and  having  a  bib  they  tried  to  re 
monstrate  with  my  mother,  her  kinswoman. 

"She  is  a  great  beauty,  for  her  age,"  said  the 
women.  "But  Beauty  is  as  Beauty  does,"  they 
reminded  her. 

"Deborah  does  as  Deborah  is,"  my  mother  an 
swered,  smiling. 

Miss  Deborah  was  wearing  the  apron  of  ticking 
that  morning  that  we  went  to  see  her  —  Pelleas  and  I, 
who  were  rather  basely  making  her  an  excuse  for  the 
joy  of  our  morning  together.  But  Miss  Deborah 
would  have  been  the  last  to  condemn  that.  She  was 
in  a  room  overlooking  the  valley,  and  a  flood  of  north 
light  poured  on  her  easel  and  her  idle  palette.  Miss 
Deborah  was  breakfasting;  and  she  explained  that 


A  FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  153 

she  had  had  a  great  fit  for  working  very  early;  and 
she  gave  us  some  delicious  tea  and  crumpets. 

"This  is  the  tea,"  she  told  us,  "that  Cupid  and 
Psyche  always  drank.  At  least  I  suppose  that  is 
what  the  Japanese  label  says.  Or  perhaps  it  says 
Aucassin  and  Nicolette.  ...  I  am  a  bit  back  in 
my  Japanese."  And  immediately  Miss  Deborah 
nodded  at  me  a  little  and  murmured  that  I  crim 
soned  as  prettily  as  either  of  these  ladies. 

Then :  "They  tell  me  that  you  two  are  betrothed," 
she  said,  leaning  back  in  her  chair.  "Why  is  that  ?" 

At  that  I  blushed  again  and  so  I  have  no  doubt  did 
Pelleas,  for  we  had  not  so  much  as  said  that  word 
in  each  other's  presence  and  to  hear  it  pronounced 
aloud  was  the  most  heavenly  torture. 

"I  suppose  you  are  very  much  in  love,"  she  an 
swered  her  question  meditatively.  "Well,  I  believe 
you.  I  believe  you  so  thoroughly  that  I  would  like 
to  paint  you.  What  barbarism  it  is,"  she  went  on, 
"that  they  don't  allow  young  lovers  to  have  their 
portraits  painted  together  while  they  are  betrothed ! 
Could  there  be  a  more  delicious  bit  of  history  added 
to  any  portrait  gallery  ?  And  what  if  the  marriage 
never  did  come  off  —  saving  your  presence  ?  The 
history  might  be  all  the  more  delicious  for  the  separa 
tion,  and  the  canvas  would  be  quite  as  valuable.  I 
am  at  this  moment  painting  two  dear  little  peasant 
folk  whose  people  flatter  me  by  being  delighted. 


154  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

I  think  that  I  must  really  speak  to  your  mother,  child, 
about  painting  you,"  she  said. 

At  that  I  stole  a  glance  at  Pelleas  and  surprised  him 
at  the  same  pastime.  And  in  that  moment  I  do  not 
think  that  either  the  history  or  the  taste  of  the  por 
trait  greatly  occupied  us ;  for  neither  of  us  could  pass 
with  serenity  the  idea  of  the  sittings.  Together, 
mornings,  in  that  still,  sun-flooded  studio.  What 
joy  for  those  other  lovers.  In  those  days  one  had 
only  to  mention  an  impossibly  romantic  situation  for 
Pelleas  and  me  to  live  it  out  in  imagination  to  its 
minutest  joy. 

"Of  course  she  will  not  consent,"  Miss  Deborah 
added  philosophically,  "so  if  I  were  you  I  would 
have  another  crumpet.  My  crumpets  are  consid 
erably  better  than  my  portraits.  And  my  cook  does 
the  crumpets." 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  low  chair,  and  Pelleas 
and  I  looked  at  her  in  a  kind  of  awe.  She  was  like 
mother's  Sweet-william  that  never  would  blossom  in 
the  seed-book  colours  but  came  out  unexpectedly  in 
the  most  amazing  variegations.  She  sat  with  one 
long,  slim  hand  propping  her  face,  a  face  attenuated, 
whimsical  in  line,  with  full  red  mouth  and  eyes  that 
never  bothered  with  what  went  on  before  them  so  long 
as  this  did  not  obstruct  their  view. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  picture  above  your 
heads  ?"  she  asked. 


A  FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  155 

We  looked,  glad  to  be  set  at  our  ease.  Then 
Pelleas  and  I  turned  to  each  other  in  delicious 
trepidation.  For  there  on  the  wall  of  Miss  Deborah's 
studio  was  a  picture  of  the  very  garden  that  we  two 
had  meant  to  find.  We  recognized  it  at  once  —  our 
garden,  where  Pelleas  had  said  the  Spring  lane  would 
lead  between  the  hedgerows  and  where  the  shadows 
would  fall  differently  and  the  echoes  be  long  drawn 
to  music. 

I  cannot  tell  what  there  may  have  been  about  that 
picture  so  to  move  us,  and  to  this  day  I  do  not  know 
what  place  it  strove  to  show.  But,  O,  I  remember 
the  green  of  it,  the  tender,  early  green,  the  half- 
evident  boughs  of  indeterminate  bloom,  the  sense  of 
freshness,  of  sweet  surprise  at  some  meaning  of  the 
year,  the  well,  the  shrine,  the  shepherd  with  his 
pipes,  the  incommunicable  spirit  of  rhythm  and  of 
echo.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  like  it?"  asked  Miss  Deborah  smil 
ing,  and  I  was  abashed  to  find  my  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"I  think  that  this,"  Pelleas  answered  quaintly, 
"will  be  the  soul  of  Spring,  Miss  Deborah;  and  the 
outdoors  this  morning  will  be  the  body." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Miss  Deborah,  nodding; 
"though  I  fancy  more  things  are  souls  than  we  give 
them  credit  for,"  she  added. 

Miss  Deborah  looked  at  us,  her  chin  in  her  hand. 


156  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

And  after  a  moment  to  our  great  amazement  she 
said :  — 

"I  shall  give  you  this  picture  for  a  wedding  gift, 
I  think.  And  I  tell  you  now  so  that  if  you  are  tempted 
to  break  the  engagement  you  will  think  twice.  Is  it 
a  picture  that  you  want  to  live  with  ?" 

It  was  not  only  a  picture  that  we  wanted  to  live 
with;  it  was  a  picture  whose  spell  would  be  eternal. 
And  "Did  you  paint  it,  Miss  Deborah  ?"  we  asked  in 
our  simplicity. 

Miss  Deborah  shook  her  head  and  named  a  great 
name,  then  just  beginning  to  be  reverenced. 

"He  paints  pictures  better  than  his  cook  makes 
crumpets,"  she  said,  "and  the  quality  is  not  usual. 
Spend  the  day  with  me,"  she  added  abruptly.  "I 
would  like  you  to  see  the  little  lovers  who  are  sitting 
for  my  *  Betrothed/  I  will  send  a  message  to  your 
mother,  Etarre.  Sit  there  while  I  work.  I  like  to 
think  of  you  there." 

Whereupon  she  went  off  to  her  easel  before  the 
north  light,  and  Pelleas  and  I  sat  in  the  quiet  room 
with  our  Wonderful  Picture  and  talked  of  it. 

"There  must  be  such  a  place,"  said  Pelleas 
simply,  "or  he  wouldn't  have  painted  it.  He  couldn't, 
you  know.  There  must  be  a  place  a  little  like  it." 

"Yes,  a  little  like  it,"  I  assented,  "with  the  foun 
tain  at  the  gate  the  way  you  said." 

"Wouldn't  it   be  wonderful  to  find  it?"   Pelleas 


A   FOUNTAIN  OF   GARDENS  157 

went  on.  "To  come  upon  it  quite  suddenly  when  we 
didn't  know.  In  Etruria,  or  Tuscany,  or  Tempe." 

Yes,  it  would  be  wonderful  and  before  all  things 
wonderful. 

"We  would  know  it  at  once,"  he  added.  "We 
would  have  to  know  it,  whatever  way  we  came,  by  the 
well  or  by  the  path  or  by  the  shrine." 

Yes,  we  agreed,  we  would  have  to  know  it.  What 
wonder  to  step  together  over  that  green  with  the 
rhythm  and  echo  of  the  pipes  to  lure  us  to  the  way. 
If  once  we  found  it  we  would  never  leave  it,  we  set 
tled  that,  too.  For  this  was  the  week  of  our  betrothal, 
and  it  did  not  occur  to  us  that  one  must  seek  more 
than  gardens.  So  we  talked,  and  in  the  mists  of  our 
happy  fancy  Pelleas  suddenly  set  a  reality  that 
made  our  hearts  beat  more  joyously  than  for  their 
dreams. 

"Think,  dear,"  he  said,  "this  picture  will  hang  in 
our  home." 

It  would  —  it  would.  We  looked  at  it  with  new 
eyes.  In  our  home. 

Eventually  Miss  Deborah  Ware  came  back,  one 
hand  in  the  pocket  of  her  ticking  apron. 

"You  two  make  me  think  of  that  picture,"  she  said. 
"That  is  why  I  have  given  it  to  you,  I  believe.  It  is 
such  a  kind  of  heaven-and-earth  place,  with  the  upper 
air  to  breathe,  and  what  little  ballast  there  is  would 
be  flowers  and  pipes  of  Pan.  But  /  don't  find  fault 


158  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

with  that.  Personally  I  believe  that  is  the  only 
air  there  is,  and  I'm  certain  it's  the  only  proper  bal 
last.  You  recognize  the  place  in  the  picture,  don't 
you?" 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  some  alarm  at  the  idea 
of  being  told;  but  we  ought  to  have  trusted  Miss 
Deborah. 

"'A  fountain  of  gardens,'"  she  quoted,  "'a  well 
of  living  waters  and  streams  from  Lebanon.  Awake, 
O  north  wind;  and  come,thou  south;  blow  upon  my 
garden,  that  the  spices  may  flow  out.'  I  don't  know 
if  that  is  what  he  meant,"  she  added,  "but  that  is 
what  he  painted.  'Awake,  O  north  wind;  and  come, 
thou  south,'  is  undoubtedly  what  that  shepherd  is 
piping.  Come  to  luncheon.  Perhaps  we  shall  find 
goat's-milk  cheese  and  Bibline  wine  and  pure  white 
honey.  In  case  we  do  not,  would  steamed  clams 
do?" 

"Miss  Deborah,"  said  Pelleas,  as  we  followed 
her  down  the  studio,  "we  mean  to  go  to  that  garden, 
the  real  garden,  you  know.  We've  been  saying  so 


now." 


In  the  studio  door  she  turned  and  faced  us,  nodding 
her  understanding. 

"Go  there,"  she  said.  "But  whether  you  ever  go 
to  the  real  garden  or  not,  mind  you  live  in  this  one. 
And  one  thing  more :  Mind  you  pay  your  entrance 
fee,"  she  said. 


A   FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  159 

At  this,  remembering  as  I  do  how  our  world  was 
stuff  of  dreams,  I  think  that  we  both  must  have  looked 
a  bit  bewildered.  Entrance  fee.  What  had  our 
fountain  of  gardens  to  do  with  an  entrance  fee  ? 

"  You  don't  know  what  that  means  ? "  she  said.  "  I 
thought  as  much.  Then  I  think  I  must  ask  you  to 
promise  me  something." 

She  went  across  the  hall  to  the  dining-room,  and  we 
followed  wondering. 

"Just  you  keep  the  picture,"  said  Miss  Deborah 
Ware,  "until  it  will  make  some  one  else  happier  than 
it  makes  you.  And  then  give  it  away.  Will  you 
remember  ?  Do  you  get  the  idea  of  the  entrance  fee 
to  the  garden  ?  And  you  promise  ?  It's  just  as  I 
thought  —  we've  steamed  clams  instead  of  am 
brosia.  Are  you  sorry  you  stopped  ?" 

It  was  a  very  merry  luncheon.  I  remember  chiefly 
the  epergne  of  clematis,  and  the  border  of  the  wall 
paper  done  in  crocuses,  and  the  sun  flooding  through 
leaded  glass.  Those  were  the  days  when  an  epergne 
of  clematis  and  a  border  of  crocuses  and  the  like 
seemed  to  me  to  be  inclusive  of  the  law  and  the 
prophets,  and  I  felt  a  luxury  of  pity  for  every  one 
who  had  not  this  special  grace  of  understanding.  I 
think  that  I  even  felt  a  little  stir  of  pity  for  Miss 
Deborah  Ware.  Yes,  I  decided,  Miss  Deborah  was 
like  mother's  Sweet-william  that  would  not  blossom 
in  the  colours  of  the  seed  catalogue  but  showed  forth 


160  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

amazing  hues  of  its  own.  Such  as  that  entrance  fee 
to  Arcady. 

We  lingered  at  table  until  Miss  Deborah's  two 
models  were  announced  —  the  two  who  were  sitting 
for  her  "Betrothed." 

"They  are  adorable  little  people/'  she  said.  "You 
must  see  them  before  you  go.  They  make  me  think 
of  ripe  apples  and  robin  redbreasts  and  mornings  in 
the  country.  Even  if  it  were  not  so  I  would  like 
them  for  their  shyness.  The  little  maid  —  her  name 
is  Mitty  Greaves  —  is  in  the  prettiest  panic  every 
time  I  look  at  her;  and  Joel,  the  young  lover,  actu 
ally  blushes  when  the  clock  strikes." 

She  went  away  to  the  studio  and  Pelleas  and  I 
looked  at  each  other  in  sudden  abashment  to  find 
ourselves  together,  taking  our  coffee  alone.  It  might 
have  been  our  own  table  in  a  land  of  clematis, 
beside  our  very  fountain  of  gardens  itself.  Pelleas 
stretched  his  hand  across  the  table  for  mine,  and  we 
lingered  there  in  magnificent  disregard  of  coffee  until 
the  sun  slanted  away  and  the  sweet  drowsiness  of 
the  afternoon  was  in  the  garden.  Then  we  wandered 
back  to  the  studio  and  sat  in  the  window-seat  oppo 
site  our  Wonderful  Picture  and  in  murmurs  dis 
posed  for  all  time,  as  we  thought,  of  that  extraordi 
nary  promise  which  Miss  Deborah  had  demanded. 

"This  picture,"  Pelleas  said  solemnly,  "never 
could  make  anybody  so  happy  as  it  makes  us.  For 


A  FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  161 

it  is  our  garden  that  we  planned  in  the  lane  this 
morning.  .  .  .  The  picture  will  always  bring  back 
this  morning  to  us,  Etarre.  It  is  our  garden.  It 
couldn't  be  the  same  to  any  one  else." 

"  If  we  were  to  give  it  to  any  one,  Pelleas,"  I  recall 
saying,  "it  must  be  to  some  one  who  would  under 
stand  what  the  garden  means  better  than  we." 

"Yes,"  he  assented;  "some  one  who  walks  there 
all  day  long.  Some  one  who  'walks  in  beauty*  all 
the  time." 

Thereafter  we  fancied  ourselves  standing  by  the 
shrine  and  looking  in  the  well,  and  we  saw  our  dreams 
take  shape  in  the  nebulous  fall  of  the  fountain.  Of 
our  betrothal  week  it  seems  to  me  that  that  hour  is 
sweetest  to  recall  when  I  sat  throned  in  the  window- 
seat  in  my  gown  of  roses,  and  Pelleas  at  my  feet 
talked  of  our  life  to  be.  I  think  that  there  came  to 
us  from  the  wall  the  sound  of  the  piping  in  our 
garden.  Perhaps,  although  we  had  not  then  seen 
their  faces,  the  mere  presence  of  those  other  lovers 
was  a  part  of  our  delight. 

Presently  Miss  Deborah  Ware  pushed  aside  the 
curtain  in  the  far  end  of  the  studio. 

"Now  they  are  going  to  rest  for  a  little,"  she  said, 
"and  I  must  go  down  to  the  kitchen.  But  you  may 
go  about,  anywhere  you  like." 

It  fell  so  silent  in  the  studio  that  Pelleas  and  I 
fancied  those  other  lovers  to  have  gone  out  through 


i6z  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

the  glass  doors  into  the  garden.  And  when  Pelleas 
proposed  that  we  go  to  the  north  window  and  look 
away  over  the  valley  I  think  that  we  must  have  be 
lieved  ourselves  to  be  alone  in  the  studio.  At  all 
events  I  recall  that  as  we  went  up  the  room,  lingering 
before  a  cast  or  a  sketch  or  a  bit  of  brass,  Pelleas  had 
slipped  his  arm  about  me;  and  his  arm  was  still 
about  me  when  we  stood  before  the  north  window 
and  he  said :  — 

"Etarre  —  have  you  thought  of  something  ?  Have 
you  thought  that  some  day  we  shall  stand  before  the 
picture  of  our  garden  when  we  are  old?" 

This  was  a  surprising  reflection  and  we  stood  look 
ing  in  each  other's  eyes  trying  to  fathom  the  mystery 
which  we  have  not  fathomed  yet,  for  even  now  we 
go  wondering  how  it  can  be  that  we,  who  were  we, 
are  yet  not  we;  and  still  the  love,  the  love  persists.  I 
know  of  nothing  more  wonderful  in  the  world  than 
that. 

But  to  youth  this  thought  brings  an  inevitable 
question :  — 

"Will  you  love  me  then  as  much  as  you  love  me 
now?"  I  asked  inevitably;  and  when  Pelleas  had 
answered  with  the  unavoidable  "More,"  I  dare  say 
that  I  promptly  rebuked  him  with  youth's  "But 
could  you  love  me  more?"  And  I  am  certain  that 
he  must  have  answered  with  the  usual  divine  logic  of 
"No,  sweetheart." 


A   FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  163 

By  which  it  will  be  seen  that  a  May  day  in  Eigh 
teen  Hundred  and  Forty-five  was  as  modern  as 
love  itself. 

Then  for  no  reason  at  all  we  looked  toward  the 
west  window;  and  there  in  the  embrasure  across 
the  width  of  the  great  room  were  standing  Mitty 
Greaves  and  Joel,  Miss  Deborah's  little  lover-models, 
and  both  Mitty's  hands  were  crushed  in  Joel's  hands 
and  he  was  looking  into  her  lifted  eyes  as  if  he  were 
settling  for  all  time  some  such  question  as  had  just 
been  gladdening  us. 

They  did  not  see  us.  And  as  swiftly  as  if  we  had 
been  the  guilty  ones,  as  indeed  we  were,  we  stole  back 
to  the  other  end  of  the  studio,  breathless  with  our 
secret.  We  felt  such  fellowship  with  all  the  world  and 
particularly  the  world  of  lovers  that  so  to  have  sur 
prised  them  was,  in  a  manner,  a  kind  of  delicious 
justification  of  ourselves.  It  was  like  having  met 
ourselves  in  another  world  where  the  heavenly  prin 
ciple  which  we  already  knew  maintained  with  a 
heavenly  persistence. 

"  I  dare  say,"  murmured  Pelleas  joyously,  "  I  dare 
say  that  they  think  they  love  each  other  as  much  as 
we  do." 

We  were  sitting  in  the  window-seat,  a  little  awed 
by  our  sudden  sense  of  being  sharers  in  such  a  univer 
sal  secret,  when  Miss  Deborah  came  back'  and 
forthwith  summoned  us  all  before  the  open  fire.  She 


164  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

had  brought  a  great  plate  of  home-made  candy, 
thick  with  nuts. 

"Mitty  and  Joel,"  she  said  leisurely,  "shall  I  tell 
you  a  secret  ?  You  are  not  the  only  ones  who  are  in 
love.  For  these  two  friends  here  are  like  to  be  mar 
ried  before  you  are." 

Dear  little  Mitty  in  her  starched  white  muslin 
frock  —  I  can  see  her  now,  how  she  blushed  and 
lifted  her  shy  eyes.  Mitty  was  the  daughter  of  a 
laundress  in  the  Low  Grounds  and  I  remember  the 
scrupulous  purity  of  her  white,  threadbare  gown. 
Miss  Deborah  had  told  us  that  her  very  hair 
looked  ironed  and  that  it  had  long  been  her  opin 
ion  that  her  mother  starched  her  flaxen  braids. 
And  Joel,  in  his  open-throated  blue  blouse, 
could  no  more  have  kept  the  adoration  from 
his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  Mitty  than  he  could 
have  kept  his  shifting  brown  hands  quiet  on 
his  knees.  They  belonged  to  the  little  wild-bird 
people,  a  variety  that  I  have  since  come  to  love  and 
to  seek  out. 

"And  why,"  Pelleas  asked  then,  "are  we  likely 
to  be  married  first  ?  For  I'm  afraid  we  have  a  whole 
year  to  wait." 

I  recall  that  Miss  Deborah  tried  to  turn  aside  that 
question  by  asking  us  quickly  how  we  had  been  amus 
ing  ourselves ;  and  when  Pelleas  told  her  that  we  had 
been  sitting  before  our  Wonderful  Picture  she  talked 


A  FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  165 

about  the  picture  almost  as  if  she  wished  to  keep 
us  silent. 

"Up  at  the  Governor's  house/'  said  Miss  Deborah, 
"they  have  wanted  for  years  to  buy  it.  The  Gov 
ernor  saw  it  when  I  had  it  in  town.  But  the  picture 
is  yours  now,  for  all  that.  Don't  you  think  that  is 
a  pretty  picture,  Mitty?"  she  asked. 

At  this  little  Mitty  looked  up,  proud  and  pleased 
to  be  appealed  to,  and  turned  shyly  to  our  Wonderful 
Picture  —  the  picture  that  gave  Pelleas  and  me  a 
new  sense  of  happiness  whenever  we  looked  at  it; 
and  she  said  with  an  hesitation  that  was  like  another 
grace : — 

"Yes'm.  It's  the  loveliest  green,  all  over  it.  It's 
the  colour  of  the  moss  on  the  roof  of  our  woodshed." 

Ah,  poor  little  Mitty,  I  remember  thinking  almost 
passionately.  Why  was  it  that  she  was  shut  out 
from  the  kind  of  joy  that  came  to  Pelleas  and  me  in 
our  picture  ?  It  was  as  if  their  love  were  indeed  of 
another  world,  in  another  sense  than  we  had  thought. 
For  this  picture  that  had  opened  a  kind  of  paradise 
to  us  was  to  these  other  lovers  merely  suggestive  of 
Mitty's  woodshed  roof  down  in  the  Low  Grounds. 

"Shall  you  be  married  by  the  autumn?"  Pelleas 
asked  of  them  then  somewhat  hurriedly. 

And  at  that  Miss  Deborah  fell  silent  as  if  she  had 
done  her  best  to  make  us  understand;  and  Mitty 
answered  him. 


166  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  she  said  hesitatingly.  "You  see, 
it's  Joel's  father  —  he's  hurt  in  the  woods  —  a  tree 
fell  on  him  —  he  can't  ever  work  no  more,  they  think. 
And  so  Joel's  got  the  family  for  a  while." 

"Joel's  got  the  family  for  a  while."  We  knew 
what  that  meant,  even  before  Pelleas'  sympathetic 
questioning  brought  out  the  fact  that  six  were  de 
pendent  on  him,  boy  that  he  was,  with  his  own 
right  to  toil.  He  talked  bravely,  even  buoyantly,  of 
his  prospects  on  his  pittance  at  the  mill.  And  little 
Mitty  listened  and  looked  up  at  him  adoringly  and 
faced  with  perfect  courage  the  prospect  of  those  years 
of  loneliness  and  waiting.  As  I  heard  them  talk  and 
as  their  plans  unfolded  shyly  in  the  warmth  of  our 
eager  interest,  I  think  there  came  to  me  for  the  first 
time  the  sad  wondering  that  must  come  upon  us  all : 
How  should  it  be  that  Pelleas  and  I  had  so  much  and 
they  so  little  ?  how  should  it  be  that  to  us  there  were 
the  Spring  lanes,  the  May  roses,  the  fountain  of 
gardens  —  and  to  them  the  burden  of  the  day  ? 

To  us  the  fountain  of  gardens.  The  thought  was 
as  poignant  as  a  summons.  Ay,  to  us  the  joy  of  the 
garden,  the  possession  of  its  beauty;  and  why  then, 
since  we  possessed  its  spirit,  should  the  mere  magic  of 
the  canvas  be  ours  ?  We  could  part  with  that  and 
by  no  means  lose  our  garden,  for  the  garden  would 
be  ours  always.  But  the  value  that  the  world  would 
set  upon  the  picture  itself,  the  value  that  they  would 


A  FOUNTAIN  OF » CARD  ENS  167 

set  upon  it  at  the  Governor's  house  where  were  walls 
of  rare  canvas  and  curio  —  was  this  what  Miss  Deb 
orah  had  meant,  I  wondered  ?  Here  on  the  day 
that  we  had  received  it  were  there  come  two  to  whom 
Miss  Deborah's  gift  would  give  greater  happiness 
than  to  us  ? 

I  looked  at  Pelleas  and  I  think  that  in  that  mo 
ment  was  worked  our  first  miracle  of  understanding, 
and  to  this  day  we  do  not  know  to  whom  the  wish 
came  first.  But  Pelleas  smiled  and  I  nodded  a  little 
and  he  knew  and  he  turned  to  Miss  Deborah;  and 
I  leaned  toward  Mitty  and  spoke  most  incohe 
rently  I  fear,  to  keep  her  attention  from  what  Miss 
Deborah  should  say.  But  for  all  that  I  heard  per 
fectly  :  — 

"Would  it  be  enough?"  Miss  Deborah  repeated. 
"  Dear  boy,  the  picture  would  keep  the  whole  family 
like  kings  for  a  year.  Since  you  ask  me,  you  know." 

And  Pelleas  turned  to  me  with  a  barely  percep 
tible  — 

"Shall  we,  Etarre?" 

And  I  made  him  know  that  it  was  what  I  would 
have  above  all  other  things,  if  Miss  Deborah  was 
willing.  And  as  for  Miss  Deborah,  she  leaned  back 
in  her  low  chair,  her  eyes  shining  and  a  little  pink 
spot  on  either  cheek,  and  she  said  only :  — 

"I  told  you!  I  tell  everybody !  It's  you  heaven- 
and-earth  kind  of  people  with  a  ballast  of  flowers 


168  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

that  know  more  about  your  entrance  fee  to  the  garden 
than  anybody  else." 

We  wondered  afterward  what  she  could  have 
meant;  for  of  course  there  could  be  no  question  of 
our  having  paid  an  entrance  fee  to  our  garden  in  the 
sense  that  she  had  intended,  since  what  we  were  pro 
posing  to  do  was  to  us  no  payment  of  a  debt  or  a  fee, 
but  instead  a  great  happiness  to  us  both. 

"Are  you  sure,  Miss  Deborah,  that  they  want  it 
for  the  Governor's  house  now?"  Pelleas  asked  in 
sudden  anxiety. 

"They  were  here  again  yesterday  to  ask  me," 
Miss  Deborah  assured  us;  and  I  think  there  was  a 
certain  radiance  in  her  face. 

So  Miss  Deborah  told  Mitty  and  Joel — dear  little 
maid,  dear  honest  young  lover;  shall  I  ever  forget 
the  look  in  their  eyes  when  they  knew  ?  And,  re 
membering,  I  am  smitten  with  a  kind  of  wonder 
ment  at  the  immortality  of  the  look  of  happiness  in 
another's  eyes.  For  many  and  many  a  time  when 
Pelleas  and  I  have  been  stepping  through  some  way 
of  shadow  we  have,  I  know,  recalled  the  look  on 
those  luminous  young  faces ;  and  we  have  said  to  each 
other  that  life  can  never  be  wholly  shadowed  or 
wholly  barren  while  there  remain  in  the  world  wistful 
faces  to  whom  one  may  bring  that  look.  It  is  so 
easy  to  make  eyes  brighten,  as  I  hope  every  one  in 
the  world  knows. 


A   FOUNTAIN  OF  GARDENS  169 

And  so  our  fountain  of  gardens  tossed  up  such  a 
rainbow  as  the  happiness  of  Mitty  and  Joel  —  Mitty 
with  the  starched  flaxen  braids  and  Joel  with  the 
brown  shining  face  to  whom  the  picture  had  sug 
gested  only  the  green  of  a  woodshed  roof.  Pelleas 
and  I  had  quite  forgotten  that  we  had  meant  to  give 
the  picture  to  some  one  who  should  understand  the 
garden  better  than  we  —  one  who  should  "walk 
in  beauty."  Something  of  the  significance  of  this 
stirred  vaguely  in  our  thought  even  then ;  but  I  think 
that  we  have  since  come  to  regard  this  change  of  pur 
pose  as  holding  one  of  the  meanings  of  life. 

Mitty  and  Joel  left  Miss  Deborah's  house  just  be 
fore  us,  and  Pelleas  and  I  lingered  for  a  moment  in 
her  doorway. 

"That  young  artist,"  said  Miss  Deborah,  "who 
paints  pictures  better  than  his  cook  makes  crumpets 
—  I  shall  write  to  him  to-night.  I  shall  tell  him  that 
even  if  he  never  paints  another  picture  he  will  not 
have  been  an  artist  in  vain."  She  leaned  toward  us, 
smiling  and  nodding  a  little.  "There  will  be  other 
entrance  fees,"  she  said;  "watch  for  them." 

We  went  up  the  twilight  lane  that  led  between  the 
Governor's  treasure-house  of  canvas  and  curio  and 
the  thatched  cots  of  the  Low  Grounds.  Save  for  the 
shadowy  figures  of  Mitty  and  Joel  walking  before  us, 
and  waving  their  hands  at  the  lane's  turning,  noth 
ing  was  changed  since  the  morning.  Yet  now  the 


170  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

spirit  of  the  place  lived  not  only  in  its  spell  of  bloom 
but  it  lived  also  in  us.  Some  door  had  been  opened 
and  we  had  entered. 

When  we  reached  the  upper  meadow,  Pelleas 
suddenly  caught  my  hand. 

"Ah,  look  — look,  Etarre!"  he  cried. 

In  the  dimness  the  meadow  lay,  all  of  tender,  early 
green,  like  that  of  our  Wonderful  Picture,  with  half- 
evident  boughs  of  indeterminate  bloom  pleasant  with 
freshness  and  with  sweet  surprise  at  some  meaning 
of  the  year. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  "I  think,  if  we  look,  the  well 
and  the  shepherd  with  his  pipes  will  be  over  there." 

"And  the  shrine,"  Pelleas  said. 

We  stood  at  the  stile,  and  it  seemed  to  us  that  the 
dusk  had  shaped  itself  to  be  our  garden  at  whose  gate, 
when  one  has  entered,  a  fountain  will  spring  so  that, 
as  Pelleas  had  said,  "no  one  can  get  out  —  ever."  At 
the  last  we  looked  long  in  each  other's  eyes.  And 
I  think  that  we  read  there  the  secret  of  the  garden 
that  lies  not  in  Etruria,  or  Tuscany,  or  Tempe;  and 
we  knew  its  living  waters  and  its  spices  and  its  in 
communicable  spirit  of  rhythm  and  of  echo. 


IX 

THE    BABY 

OUR  grandniece,  Enid,  is  older  than  Lisa,  her 
sister.  Indeed,  Enid  was  twenty-two  that  Spring, 
and  had  been  for  two  years  happily  married  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  Pelleas  and  I  had  had  no  hand  in  the 
wooing.  To  see  Enid  with  her  baby  in  her  arms  was 
considerably  like  watching  a  wild  rose  rock  a  butter 
fly,  and  no  one  can  fancy  how  tenderly  we  two  ob 
served  her.  I  think  that  few  sweet  surprises  of  ex 
perience  or  even  of  wisdom  have  so  confirmed  our 
joy  in  life  as  the  sight  of  our  grandniece  Enid  with 
her  baby. 

It  chanced  that  when  the  baby  was  but  a  few  weeks 
old  David,  Enid's  young  husband,  was  sent  to  The 
Hague  upon  some  government  business,  a  state  of 
affairs  for  which  it  seemed  to  Pelleas  and  me  that 
the  United  States  should  be  called  to  account.  For 
experience  shows  that  the  government  will  go  irre 
sistibly  forward  but  I  protest  that  the  baby's  father 
never  can  be  compensated  for  that  absence;  and  I 
would  like  to  have  any  one  object  who  can  believe 
differently. 

171 


172  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

For  all  his  impatience  to,see  whether  the  little  child 
had  grown  to  manhood  in  those  six  weeks  or  so,  David 
was  obliged  to  report  at  Washington  immediately 
upon  his  return.  When  the  steamship  was  almost 
due  Enid  found  that  she  could  wait  for  him  to  see 
the  baby  not  one  day  longer  than  that  on  which  the 
boat  was  to  arrive.  So  she  took  train  from  some 
where  in  Connecticut  with  that  very  little  child  and 
arrived  at  our  house  in  a  sad  state  of  collapse,  a 
few  minutes  before  her  telegram.  Enid  has  no 
nurse  maid.  They  are  very  young  married  people 
indeed. 

The  night  on  which  Enid  and  her  baby  reached 
us  Pelleas  and  I  had  been  sitting  in  the  dark  of  our 
drawing-room,  with  the  fire  almost  burned  out.  It 
was  one  of  the  nights  when  all  the  little  shadows  that 
live  near  come  creeping  forth.  They  came  when 
we  were  not  aware  and  there  they  were  in  the  room, 
saying  nothing.  The  ghosts  that  come  to  the  plat 
forms  of  Elsinore  do  not  often  speak. 

"We  dreamed  it  differently,  Etarre,"  Pelleas  had 
said. 

I  knew  what  he  meant,  Have  we  not  all  dreamed 
it  differently  ?  And  then  we  sat  thinking  of  the 
Great  Dream  which  we  had  had  and  lost.  For 
there  was  a  time,  when  Pelleas  could  model  and  I 
could  write  so  that  a  few  were  deceived,  that  the 
Great  Dream  for  one  radiant  year  was  in  our  home 


THE    BAB*7  173 

and  went  away  when  little  Cedric  died.  In  all  the 
years  since  then  we  have  gone  wondering  where  he 
may  be  now,  and  where  now,  without  us.  For  he 
was  so  very  tiny  when  he  left  us;  he  could  hardly 
take  a  step  alone  even  by  clinging  to  my  finger,  with 
Pelleas'  hands  outstretched  before  him.  I  think 
it  is  partly  lest  he  be  needing  us  as  he  needed  us  then 
that  we  are  never  very  far  from  him  in  thought,  and 
that  night  we  talked  long  of  him  until  one  by  one  all 
the  other  shadows  went  away  in  the  presence  of  his 
little  figure  on  our  hearth. 

So  we  were  sitting  with  "Do  you  remember?" 
and  "But  do  you  remember?"  on  our  lips  when 
the  door-bell  rang  and  Nichola  came  upstairs  to 
answer  it,  talking  all  the  way.  We  wondered 
somewhat,  for  we  have  no  unexpected  visitors  and 
no  small  excitements.  We  wondered  the  more  when 
she  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room, 
bearing  in  her  arms  a  white  bundle  which  wore 
long  and  alarmingly  fluffy  skirts. 

"Nichola!"  we  both  cried;  for  you  do  not  know 
how  pleasant  it  is  when  the  days  grow  colourless  to 
have  something  happen  which  you  yourself  did  not 
bring  about.  "Nichola!  What  is  it?" 

"It's  a  babby,"  Nichola  informed  us  grimly,  and 
laid  it  in  Pelleas'  arms  —  face  downward,  he  afterward 
told  me.  Then  she  beckoned  me  to  the  hall  and 
I  went,  barely  able  to  stand ;  for  I  was  certain  that  it 


174  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

had  been  left  in  a  basket  on  the  steps  with  nothing 
but  a  locket. 

"Nichola,"  I  begged,  "whose  baby?" 

Nichola  was  bending  over  the  bench  where  sat  poor 
little  Enid,  crying  helplessly. 

"N  —  nobody  told  me/'  Enid  sobbed  on  my 
shoulder,  "what  it  would  be  like  to  travel  with  a 
ten-weeks-old  baby.  He  cried  every  m  —  mile  of 
the  way  here  —  and  he  is  a  good  baby,  too !" 

Bless  the  little  mothers.  I  have  never  yet  known 
one  who  would  not  assure  you,  though  in  the  presence 
of  a  child  exhibiting  a  most  dreadful  temper,  that 
her  baby  was  "usually  so  good,  too." 

Together,  though  I  suppose  that  I  hindered  far 
more  than  I  helped,  Nichola  and  I  got  Enid  upstairs 
and  put  her  in  bed,  dear  little  thing,  hardly  more 
than  a  baby  herself  for  all  her  wise  use  of  the  most 
advanced  baby  terms.  Nichola  hurried  downstairs 
and  in  a  few  minutes  bustled  back  with  a  steam 
ing  bowl  of  some  mysterious  compound,  hot  and 
savoury  in  a  bowl.  How  do  some  people  always 
know  what  to  bring  you,  hot  and  savoury,  in  a  bowl  ? 
If  I  had  gone  down  to  the  kitchen  I  protest  that  I 
could  have  devised  nothing  but  eggs. 

Nichola  insisted  on  feeding  Enid  —  the  imperti 
nent  old  woman  had  observed  that  when  I  am  ex 
cited  my  hands  tremble.  But  whose  do  not  ?  As  for 
Nichola  I  had  often  told  her  that  she  would  not  show 


THE   BABY  175 

emotion  if  an  army  with  banners  were  to  march  in 
the  front  door.  Instead  of  fear  or  sorrow  or  agita 
tion  Nichola's  way  of  emotion  is  anger;  and  I 
should  have  expected  her  to  remind  such  an  army  of 
the  purpose  of  the  door  mat. 

"You'd  best,"  Nichola  said  to  me  over  her  shoul 
der,  "go  downstairs  and  see  after  that  —  babby." 

Nichola  dislikes  a  great  many  things,  but  the  great 
est  of  these  dislikes  is  babies.  When  she  passes  one 
in  its  perambulator  I  have  seen  her  take  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  walk. 

"They  ain't  a  bone  in  'em,"  she  once  explained; 
"when  you  go  to  pick  'em  up,  they  slimpse." 

I  deplored  this  failing  of  Nichola's  as  I  hurried 
downstairs  to  Pelleas,  but  I  was  chiefly  concerned  to 
know  how  he  had  got  on  in  my  absence  —  Pelleas, 
who  will  not  even  hold  my  Angora. 

No  sound  came  from  the  drawing-room.  I  en 
tered  fearfully,  for  even  a  man  of  genius  is  sometimes 
helpless.  I  have  never  known  my  own  alarm  more 
swiftly  rebuked. 

He  had  managed  to  turn  on  the  lights  and  further 
more  he  had  contrived  to  take  ofF  the  baby's  cloak 
and  bonnet  and  veil,  though  usually  he  could  as  easily 
embroider  a  thing  as  to  untie  it,  save  after  a  very 
long  time.  And  there  sat  Pelleas  on  the  sofa  with 
the  baby  in  one  arm,  and  he  was  gravely  holding  a 
lighted  match  a  foot  from  its  face. 


176  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

As  I  looked  he  threw  the  burned  match  in  the  grate, 
soberly  lighted  another  and  repeated  the  performance. 
Evidently  he  construed  some  movement  of  the  baby's 
face  to  be  an  answering  smile,  for  he  looked  vastly 
pleased  and  encouraged  and  instantly  said  clearly :  — 

"Well,  tol,  tol,  tol,  tolly  tol!  Yes!"  And  then 
added  in  a  tone  of  the  simplest  conviction,  "Of 


course." 


I  hurried  forward,  laughing  at  him  in  spite  of  the 
sudden  lump  in  my  throat.  It  is  sad  for  Pelleas  to 
be  nobody's  grandfather  when  he  looks  so  precisely 
like  a  grandfather  on  the  stage. 

"What  are  the  matches  for,  Pelleas  ?"  I  cried. 

He  looked  up  with  the  adorably  abashed  expression 
that  I  love  to  bring  to  his  eyes. 

"They  keep  its  attention,"  he  murmured  apolo 
getically,  "nothing  else  would.  I  think  it's  hungry." 

"'It'!"  I  cried  scornfully;   "why,  it's  a  boy." 

"Ah,  well  now,"  Pelleas  argued  placidly,  "you  said 
'It's  a  boy.'  And  I  said,  'It's  hungry.'  What's  the 
difference?" 

And  to  this  there  was  really  no  response. 

The  baby's  disturbed  babbling  waxed  to  a  steady 
fretting  which  increased  in  volume  and  violence. 
Hungry  he  undoubtedly  was. 

I  remembered  that  Enid's  black  bag  lay  on  the 
bench  in  the  hall.  I  hurried  to  it,  and  there  was  the 
baby's  empty  bottle.  When  I  came  back,  though 


THE   BABY  177 

Pelleas  was  lighting  matches  at  a  furious  rate,  the 
baby  was  crying  at  the  top  of  his  small  strength. 

"He'll  disturb  Enid,"  I  said.  "Pelleas,"  I  added, 
as  one  proposing  revolutions,  "we  must  take  the 
baby  down  to  the  kitchen  and  feed  him." 

You  to  whom  such  sweet  offices  are  the.  joy  —  or 
the  burden  !  —  of  every  day,  what  can  you  know  of 
the  thrill  of  that  moment  to  one  whose  arms  have 
been  empty  for  so  long  ?  I  protest  that  holding  the 
keys  to  The  Hague  and  all  Europe  and  the  other  con 
tinents  is  not  to  be  compared  to  the  radiant  respon 
sibility  of  that  moment. 

Pelleas  promptly  stood  up  and  extended  his  arms. 

"Take  it,"  he  said,  with  enchanting  masculine 
helplessness.  Pelleas  will  not  even  let  me  carry  my 
primroses  up  and  down  stairs,  but  merely  because 
this  was  a  baby  he  resigned  his  rights.  I  had  almost 
forgotten  how  humble  men  are  in  such  a  presence. 

I  took  the  baby  in  my  arms,  and  he  settled  down 
with  that  contented  little  gurgle  which  always  at 
tends  a  baby's  changing  hands,  most  subtilely 
flattering  the  new  nurse  until  the  storm  breaks  afresh 
harder  than  before.  This  the  storm  did  next,  and  I 
looked  at  Pelleas  a  little  wildly.  For  whatever  was 
to  be  done  I  must  do. 

"Go  first,"  said  I  firmly,  "and  open  the  kitchen 
door." 

I  followed  him  down  the  stairs,  one  foot  at  a  time, 


178  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

and  when  he  opened  the  door  the  sight  warmed  my 
heart.  The  kitchen  was  cheery  and  brightly  lighted, 
a  hot  fire  was  blazing  in  the  range,  and  the  tea 
kettle  was  singing  away  to  make  the  most  miserable 
at  peace.  Sometime  I  shall  write  a  letter  to  those 
who  are  of  all  men  the  bluest,  and  the  substance  of 
it  will  be :  Go  and  put  on  the  teakettle. 

I  sat  by  the  fire  while  Pelleas,  by  devious  ways  of 
pantry  and  refrigerator,  sought  out  the  milk,  and  we 
were  very  merry  over  warming  it,  for  it  was  a  wonder 
ful  occasion.  Pelleas  spilled  a  great  deal  of  milk 
on  Nichola's  perfectly  polished  griddles  —  O,  I 
could  not  have  loved  him  if  in  such  a  pleasant  ex 
perience  his  hands  had  been  perfectly  firm  and  in 
different.  Nichola's  hands  would  have  been  quite 
firm.  That  brown  old  woman  has  no  tremors  and 
no  tears.  And  just  as  Pelleas  had  filled  the  baby's 
bottle,  she  appeared  at  the  stair  door. 

"The  babby's  mother,"  she  said,  folding  her  arms, 
"says  you'd  know  about  mixin'  in  the  lime  water  an' 
the  milk  sugar,  an'  boilin'  the  bottles  up,  an'  washin' 
out  the  babby's  mouth  with  carbolic  acid." 

"Nichola!"  we  gasped. 

"That's  what  she  says,"  Nichola  maintained 
firmly,  "some  kind  o'  acid.  I  think  she  says  her 
Aunt  Septy  told  her.  She  says  I's  to  tell  you  or  the 
babby'd  starve.  The  young  leddy  acts  like  a  cluck- 
chicken." 


THE   BABY  179 

When  she  had  gone  back  upstairs  Pelleas  and  I 
looked  in  each  other's  faces. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  I  said  weakly,  "Pelleas,  they 
boil  everything  now." 

"They  do?"  said  Pelleas  helplessly. 

"And  they  use  two  separate  bottles,"  I  recalled 
anxiously.  " And  they — " 

Pelleas  wrinkled  his  eyes  at  the  corners. 

"Fudge!  "he  said. 

O,  I  loved  Pelleas  for  that  "  Fudge !"  Not  that  I 
do  not  believe  in  every  improvement  in  the  world. 
I  do.  And  Pelleas  holds  the  most  advanced  doc 
trines.  But  now  and  then  I  do  love  a  " Fudge!" 

"Would  you  dare  give  him  this  warm  milk?"  I 
asked  him  bravely. 

"I  certainly  would  dare,"  Pelleas  answered  clearly; 
"we  would  take  the  baby  to  ride  in  an  automobile, 
would  we  not  ?  and  as  for  danger  —  " 

"  But,  Pelleas,"  I  hesitated,  "  I  don't  like  to  think 
we're  behind  the  times,  undermining  the  progress 
of  Society  and  Science  and  — " 

By  then  the  displeasure  of  the  baby  was  like  that 
of  a  young  god,  neglected  of  Hebe.  Pelleas  handed 
me  the  bottle. 

"I  am  the  last  not  to  sympathize  with  these  de 
tails,"  he  said  gravely,  "but  it's  hungry,  Etarre. 
Feed  it.  The  situation  seems  to  require  something 
more  than  a  boiled  bottle." 


i8o  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

So,  being  unregenerate,  we  hesitated  no  longer. 
And  Pelleas  sat  beside  me,  and  the  baby  drank  with 
little  soft,  shuddering  breaths  at  the  painful  memory 
of  how  hungry  he  really  had  been.  I  bent  above 
him  and  so  did  Pelleas,  our  heads  quite  close  together 
as  we  watched  him,  and  heard  the  little  soft  noises 
and  sighs  and  met  the  eyes'  grave,  wondering  criti 
cism.  So  long,  so  long  it  had  been  since  I  had  seen 
that  one  serious  eye  lifted  to  mine  as  a  little  face 
lay  against  my  breast. 

Pelleas  put  out  one  finger  and  the  funny  little  hand 
caught  it  and  clung  to  it.  Pelleas  wrinkled  his  eyes 
at  the  corners  and  smiled  up  at  me  —  I  had  almost 
forgotten  how  he  used  to  do  that  and  then  wait  for 
me  to  tell  him  that  at  that  rate  I  could  never  get 
Cedric  to  sleep.  When  Pelleas  did  that  now  we 
sat  silent;  for  very  little  babies  are  never  unlike, 
and  if  I  had  really  let  myself  I  might  have 
imagined  and  so  I  think  might  Pelleas  have  im 
agined  .  .  .  that  which  for  more  than  forty  years 
we  have  only  dreamed. 

At  last  the  baby  moved  his  head,  gurgled  a  brief 
grace,  stared  up  at  us  unwinkingly,  and  then  wrinkled 
his  face  astoundingly.  Pelleas  rose  and  looked 
wildly  about  for  matches.  One  would  have  said  that 
we  were  fugitives  from  justice  crouching  behind  a 
panel  and  that  our  safety  depended  upon  keeping 
that  baby  quiet  during  the  passing  of  the  men-at- 


THE   BABY  181 

arms.  I  cannot  tell  how  it  is  with  others,  but  when 
one  is  seventy  a  baby  affects  one  like  this  and  to  pre 
vent  it  crying  seems  all  the  law  and  a  fair  proportion 
of  the  prophets.  So  that  when  Pelleas  came  with 
a  box  of  paraffin  matches  and  lighted  whole  hand- 
fuls  before  Enid's  baby's  eyes  I  said  very  little;  for 
he  did  stop  crying,  though  he  looked  at  these  humble 
pyrotechnics  somewhat  haughtily  and  as  if  he  knew 
more  about  them  than  he  cared  to  give  out. 

The  stair  door  does  not  creak,  and  this  time 
Nichola  was  quite  in  the  kitchen  before  we  heard 
her.  She  looked  at  us  once  and  then  hurried  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room  and  busied  herself  at  the 
dresser.  We  have  seldom  seen  Nichola  laugh  but, 
if  it  were  not  that  we  cannot  imagine  her  laughing, 
I  would  have  thought  and  Pelleas  would  have  thought 
that  her  voice  sounded  ever  so  slightly  muffled. 

"Its  mother  wants  it  right  straight  off,"  she  re 
marked,  with  her  back  toward  us. 

We  rose  promptly,  and  meekly  made  our  way  up 
stairs.  Old  Nichola  dictates  to  us  all  day  long  in 
matters  in  which,  as  I  think,  we  are  really  far  wiser 
than  she;  how  then  should  we  not  yield  in  crises  of 
which  we  may  be  supposed  to  know  nothing  ? 
Though  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  save  in  matters  of 
boiling  I  felt  myself  as1  wise  as  little  Enid  who,  as  I 
have  said,  is  a  baby  herself.  And  this  suggests  some 
thing  about  which  I  have  often  wondered,  namely, 


i82  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

when  the  actual  noon  of  motherhood  may  be  ?  For 
I  protest  it  seems  to  me  that  all  the  mothers  of  my 
acquaintance  are  either  themselves  babies,  or  else  I 
catch  myself  thinking  that  they  are  too  old  and  even 
spinsterish  in  their  notions  to  be  able  perfectly  to 
bring  up  a  child.  Yet  it  cannot  very  well  be  that  I 
was  the  only  mother  neither  too  young  nor  too  old  to 
train  youth  properly. 

I  laid  the  little  thing  in  Enid's  bed,  and  Enid 
smiled  —  that  tender,  pitiful,  young-mother  smile 
which  somehow  breaks  one's  heart  no  matter 
how  happy  the  young  mother  may  be.  But  I 
was  certain  that  the  baby  would  disturb  her. 
And  an  hour  later  while  the  doctor  was  with 
her  an  idea  came  to  me  that  set  me  in  a  delicious 
flutter.  I  had  forgotten  that  there  are  such 
sweet  excitements  in  the  world  I  hugged  the  hope 
in  silence  for  a  moment  and  then  shared  it  with 
Pelleas. 

"Suppose,"  I  said,  "that  Enid  should  need  her 
rest  to-night  ?" 

I  looked  at  him  tentatively,  expecting  him  to  un 
derstand  at  once  as  he  almost  never  fails  to  do.  I 
did  not  remember  that  it  is  far  easier  to  understand 
in  matters  of  design,  rhythm  and  the  like,  which  had 
occupied  us  these  many  years,  than  to  adjust  one's 
self  without  preparation  to  the  luminous  suggestion 
which  I  was  harbouring. 


THE   BABY  183 

"I  hope  that  she  will  have  a  good  night/'  Pelleas 
advanced,  with  appalling  density. 

"But  suppose,"  I  persisted,  "that  she  should 
need  her  rest  and  that  the  doctor  thought  the  baby 
would  be  certain  to  disturb  her  ?" 

"If  it  cries,"  Pelleas  suggested  then  with  magnifi 
cent  generosity,  "you  might  get  it  and  rock  it  awhile." 

"Pelleas!"  I  cried,  "don't  you  see?  Maybe  we 
can  have  the  baby  with  us  all  night." 

Pelleas  looked  up  in  surprise;  then  his  dear  face 
tshone. 

"Could  we,  do  you  think  ?"  he  said,  as  we  say  when 
we  want  a  thing  very  much. 

"We  will,"  I  promised. 

Therefore  when  we  heard  the  doctor  coming 
downstairs  we  hurried  to  the  hall  and  waited  for 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Between  us  we  must 
have  laid  the  matter  before  him,  though  I  do  not  in 
the  least  remember  what  we  may  have  said;  but 
some  way  we  made  him  know  for  he  nodded  and 
smiled  in  a  surprising  fashion. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "yes  —  by  all  means !  I  really 
am  persuaded  that  it  would  be  an  act  of  charity  for 
you  to  keep  that  baby  with  you  to-night." 

"On  our  niece's  account,  you  know,"  said  I  with 
dignity. 

"Certainly,"  said  he  gravely,  and  caught  up  his 
hat  and  rushed  away.  At  the  time  it  seemed  to  me 


i&t  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

that  he  was  curiously  moved  about  something  and  I 
feared  that  Enid  might  be  very  ill. 

As  for  Pelleas  and  me  we  could  hardly  wait  to  go 
upstairs.  Of  course  Nichola  had  to  know;  she 
brought  up  the  milk  and  the  alcohol  lamp  and  we 
were  obliged  to  tell  her.  To  tell  Nichola  that  you 
mean  to  do  anything  which  she  considers  foolish  is 
very  like  a  confession  that  your  whole  point  of  view 
is  ignorant  and  diseased.  Still,  in  some  fashion, 
Pelleas  and  I  together  told  her.  Our  old  servant 
regarded  us  with  the  disapprobation  which  it  is  her 
delight  not  to  disguise.  Then  on  her  brown  fingers 
she  checked  matters  off. 

"No  sleep  for  neither  one  of  you,"  she  cast  up  the 
account.  "Headaches  to-morrow  all  day.  Death 
o'  cold  dancin'  in  an'  out  o'  bed.  An'  a  smothered 
babby  by  mornin'." 

"O,  no,  no,  Nichola,"  said  we,  gently  but  sweep- 
ingly. 

I  brought  the  baby  in  our  room  to  undress  him. 
Our  room  was  cheerful  and  warm.  An  open  fire  was 
burning;  and  Pelleas  had  lighted  all  the  candles  as 
we  will  do  on  the  rare  occasions  when  we  are 
dressing  for  some  great  event.  On  a  table  beside 
the  bed  stood  the  alcohol  lamp  and  the  glasses  and 
the  baby's  bottle  —  I  had  not  even  mentioned  lime 
water  and  boiled  bottles  to  Enid  —  and  strange 
enough  they  looked  where  only  my  Bible  and  my 


THE   BABY  185 

medicine  have  lived  for  so  long.  The  baby  was 
asleep  when  we  took  him  from  Enid,  but  he  waked 
and  smiled  impartially  and  caught  at  the  air  in  per 
fect  peace.  I  took  off  the  little  garments,  feeling  all 
the  old  skill  come  back  to  my  hands  idle  to  all  such 
sweet  business  for  more  than  forty  years.  Pelleas 
insisted  on  drawing  off  the  tiny  socks  and  stockings 
and  when  I  saw  the  little  feet  in  his  palm  I  could 
almost  have  believed,  for  one  swift  moment,  that  the 
years  had  indeed  rolled  back.  Then  we  wrapped 
him  warmly  and  laid  him  in  the  great  bed.  And 
Pelleas  spent  a  long  while  happily  tucking  in  and 
tucking  down  and  pretending  to  be  very  useful. 

We  had  thought  to  read  for  a  little  while  as  is  our 
wont  and  we  did  try  to  do  so;  but  neither  of  us  could 
keep  our  eyes  anywhere  near  the  book  or  could  listen 
to  the  other  read  aloud.  For  the  unwonted  sound 
of  that  soft  breathing  was  wholly  distracting.  And 
once  a  little  hand  was  thrown  up  over  the  edge  of 
the  covers.  What  did  we  care  about  the  sculp 
tures  at  ^Egina  then  ? 

Nichola  looked  in. 

"  Best  leave  a  lamp  burnin',"  she  said  crossly.  "An' 
if  it  should  cry,  you  call  me." 

By  which,  as  Pelleas  said  afterward,  she  by  no 
means  intended  to  provide  for  the  possible  emotion 
of  the  lamp. 

I  was  longing  to  feel  that  little  head  in  the  hollow 


186  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

of  my  arm.  I  laid  it  there  presently  and  tucked  my 
hand  between  the  two  pillows  as  I  had  been  wont 
and  held  away  the  covering  from  the  baby's  face. 
There  was  the  fine  dark  hair,  and  there  was  the  tiny 
hand  uplifted  and  —  as  I  live  !  —  there  was  the  iden 
tical  ruffle  of  lace  which  had  always  used  to  bother 
about  the  little  chin.  In  that  first  ecstatic  moment 
I  looked  up  at  Pelleas  almost  frightened,  half-ex 
pecting  the  buoyant,  youthful  face  and  the  dear  eyes 
that  were  wont  to  look  down  upon  Cedric  and  me. 
And  the  dear  eyes  smiled,  for  they  have  never 
changed. 

I  lay  very  still  listening  to  that  quiet  breathing,  to 
the  rustle  and  turning  which  is  a  tender  lan 
guage  of  its  own.  When  one  is  seventy  and  closes 
one's  eyes  it  is  wonderful  how  the  whole  world  grows 
youthful.  And  when  I  had  almost  dozed  that 
tender  rustling  brought  me  back  so  happily  that  I 
could  hardly  tell  which  was  memory  of  that  other 
little  head  upon  my  arm  and  which  was  now.  At 
midnight  and  twice  later  when  the  baby's  food  had 
to  be  warmed  it  was  I  who  did  this,  and  the  old 
familiar  helplessness  of  Pelleas  in  this  little  presence 
delighted  me  beyond  measure.  Though  when  the 
baby  grew  impatient  and  cried,  Pelleas  valiantly 
lighted  matches  before  him,  and  he  fell  silent  and 
even  smiled,  and  slept  again.  I  record  it  as  a  mere 
matter  of  history  that  in  the  intervals  of  these 


THE   BABY  187 

ceremonies  I  had  not  slept  for  a  moment.  For 
there  had  come  thronging  back  such  a  company  of 
memories,  such  a  very  flight  of  spirits  of  the  old 
delight  of  our  wonderful  year  when  there  was 
Cedric,  that  the  world  had  no  room  for  sleep  at 
all.  Sleep !  I  do  not  suppose  that  any  one  would 
chide  me  for  being  wakeful  at  a  ball  ?  And  noth 
ing  in  the  world  could  have  been  so  delightful  to 
me  as  were  those  hours  when  that  little  head  lay 
on  my  arm. 

Sometime  after  daylight  he  awoke.  Cedric  had 
been  wont  to  lie  quietly  as  long  as  ever  I  would  do 
so,  but  Enid's  baby  —  for  it  was  Enid's  baby  for  all 
our  pretending  —  awoke  and  played  with  his  fists. 
Then  a  fancy  that  had  hovered  over  me  all  the 
night  took  shape,  and  I  told  it  to  Pelleas. 

"Dear,"  I  said,  "you  know  the  things  in  the  bot 
tom  drawer  in  the  closet  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  at  once,  "I  have  been  think 
ing  about  them." 

"Suppose,"  I  suggested,  "that  we  were  to  —  to 
try  some  of  them  on  the  baby." 

"I  have  been  thinking  the  same  thing,"  Pelleas 
said. 

It  was  not  cold  in  the  room,  for  we  had  kept  the 
hearth  alive  all  the  night.  When  we  were  warmly 
wrapped  and  had  drawn  chairs  before  the  fire, 
Pelleas  brought  from  the  closet  that  box  filled  with 


188  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

the  tender  yellow  muslins  that  Cedric  had  worn 
such  a  little  time.  I  chose  the  white  batiste  gown 
that  I  had  made  myself,  every  stitch;  and  over  his 
little  nightgown  we  put  it  on  Enid's  baby.  He 
was  very  good,  and  crowed  and  nestled;  and  so 
we  found  the  long  white  cloak  that  I  had  em 
broidered  and  a  bonnet  that  Pelleas  had  once 
selected  himself,  all  alone,  at  a  shop.  And  Enid's 
baby's  arm  doubled  up  in  a  ball  when  I  tried  to 
put  it  in  a  sleeve  —  I  suppose  that  there  never 
was  a  baby's  arm  that  did  not  do  this,  but  I  have 
known  only  one  little  arm.  And  when  the  pink 
hand  came  creeping  through  the  cuff  Pelleas  caught 
it  and  kissed  it  —  O,  I  had  not  thought  for  years 
how  he  used  to  do  that. 

"Now!"  I  said,  "Pelleas  — look  now." 

Enid's  baby  sat  on  my  knee,  his  back  to  us  both. 
The  little  bent  back  in  that  white  coat,  the  soft  collar 
crumpling  up  about  the  neck  in  spite  of  me,  the  same 
little  bonnet  with  the  flower  in  the  back  and  the  lace 
all  around  — 

Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other  silently.  And 
not  so  much  in  grief  as  in  longing  that  was  like  the 
hope  of  heaven. 

We  did  not  hear  Nichola  coming  with  our  coffee. 
So  she  opened  the  door  and  saw  the  box  on  the  floor 
and  the  things  scattered  all  about.  She  knew  what 
they  were.  She  was  with  us  when  little  Cedric  was 


THE   BABY  189 

here,  and  she  had  not  forgotten.  She  stood  still,  and 
then  set  the  tray  down  on  the  table. 

"Drink  your  coffee!"  she  called  sharply,  and  was 
out  of  the  room  before  we  coujd  speak. 

In  a  moment,  when  I  could,  and  because  Enid's 
baby  cried  then  I  laid  him  in  Pelleas'  arms  and  went 
out  to  tell  Nichola  to  bring  more  milk. 

And  leaning  against  a  bureau  in  the  passage 
Nichola  stood  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"Go  on  away!"  she  said,  shaking  her  old  gray 
head.  "Goon  away!" 


X 

THE   MARRIAGE    OF    KATINKA 

"I  SHALL  take  my  white  lady's-cloth  gown,"  I 
repeated  obstinately. 

"You  don't  need  it  no  more  than  what  you  do 
two  heads,  mem,"  Nichola  maintained. 

"But  it  is  the  first  visit  that  I've  made  in  three 
years,  Nichola,"  I  argued,  "and  it  is  quite  the 
prettiest  gown  that  I've  had  for  — " 

"Yah  !"  Nichola  denied;  "you've  got  four  sides  of 
a  closet  hung  full.  An'  where  you  goin'  but  down 
on  a  farm  for  three  days  ?  Take  the  kitchen  stove 
if  you  must,  but  leave  the  dress  here.  You'll  be 
laughed  at  for  fashionable!" 

I  wavered,  and  looked  consultingly  at  Pelleas. 

It  is  one  sign  of  our  advancing  years,  we  must 
believe,  that  Pelleas  and  I  dislike  to  be  laughed 
at.  Our  old  servant  scolds  us  all  day  long  and 
we  are  philosophical;  but  if  she  laughs  at 
either  of  us  Pelleas  grieves  and  I  rage.  Nichola's 
"You'll  be  laughed  at  for  fashionable"  humbled 
me. 

Pelleas,  the  morning  sun  shining  on  his  hair,  was 

190 


THE   MARRIAGE   OF   KATINKA  191 

picking  dead  leaves  from  the  begonias  in  the  window 
and  pretended  not  to  hear. 

I  looked  longingly  at  my  white  lady's-cloth  gown 
but  Nichola  was  already  folding  it  away.  It  had 
ruffles  of  lace  and  a  chiffon  fichu  and  was  altogether 
most  magnificent.  I  had  had  it  made  for  a  winter 
wedding  and  as  it  had  not  been  worn  since,  I  was 
openly  anxious  to  reappear  in  it.  And  now  on 
occasion  of  this  visit  to  Cousin  Diantha  at  Pad- 
dington  Nichola  threatened  me  with  remorse  if  I 
so  much  as  took  it  with  me.  I  would  be  "laughed 
at  for  fashionable !" 

However,  Pelleas  continuing  to  pick  dead  leaves  in 
a  cowardly  fashion,  there  would  have  been  no  help 
for  me  had  not  Nichola  at  that  moment  been  called 
from  the  room  by  the  poultry  wagon  which  drew  up 
at  our  door  like  a  god  from  a  cloud.  Our  steamer- 
trunk,  carefully  packed,  stood  open  before  me  with 
room  enough  and  to  spare  for  my  white  lady's-cloth 
gown. 

"Pelleas!"  I  cried  impulsively. 

He  looked  round  inquiringly,  pretending  to  have 
been  until  that  moment  vastly  absorbed. 

"If  I  put  the  gown  in,"  I  cried  excitedly,  "will  you 
strap  the  trunk  before  she  gets  back  ?" 

Pelleas  wrinkled  his  eyes  at  the  corners,  and  it  was 
the  look  that  means  whatever  I  mean. 

In  a  twinkling  the  gown  was  out  of  its  tissues  and 


i92  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

tumbled  in  place  in  a  fashion  which  would  have 
scandalized  me  if  I  had  been  feeling  less  adventure 
some.  Pelleas,  whose  hands  could  have  trembled 
with  no  more  sympathy  if  he  had  been  expecting  to 
appear  in  the  gown  too,  fastened  the  straps  and 
turned  the  key  and  we  hurried  downstairs.  On  the 
landing  we  met  Nichola. 

"The  trunk  is  strapped,  Nichola,"  said  I  firmly. 

"You  needn't  to  hev  done  that,"  she  grunted 
graciously. 

We  passed  her  in  guilty  silence. 

"If  only  there  is  actually  a  chance  to  wear  the 
gown,"  I  confided  to  Pelleas  on  the  train  that  after 
noon,  "it  will  make  it  all  right  to  have  taken  it." 

"What  a  shocking  principle,  Etarre,"  returned 
Pelleas,  quite  as  if  he  had  not  helped. 

We  were  met  at  the  Paddington  station  by  some 
thing  which  Cousin  Diantha  called  "the  rig."  It 
was  four-seated  and  had  flying  canvas  sides  which 
seemed  to  billow  it  on  its  way.  From  an  open 
ing  in  the  canvas  Cousin  Diantha  herself  thrust 
out  a  red  mitten  as  the  bony  driver  was  conduct 
ing  us  across  the  platform.  Our  Cousin  Diantha 
Bethune  is  the  mince-pie-and-plum-pudding  branch 
of  our  family.  We  can  never  think  of  her  with 
out  recollecting  her  pantry  and  her  oven.  And 
whereas  some  women  wear  always  the  air  of  having 
just  dressed  several  children  or  written  letters  or 


THE   MARRIAGE   OF   KATINKA  193 

been  shopping,  Cousin  Diantha  seems  to  have  been 
caught  red-handed  at  slicing  and  kneading  and  to 
be  away  from  those  processes  under  protest.  She 
never  reads  a  book  without  seeming  to  turn  the  leaves 
with  a  cook  knife  and  I  think  her  gowns  must  all  be 
made  with  "  apron  fronts." 

"Ain't  this  old  times  though  ?"  she  cried,  opening 
her  arms  to  me,  "  ain't  it  ?  Etarre,  you  set  here  by 
me.  Pelleas  can  set  front  with  Hiram  there.  My  !" 

"The  rig"  rocked  up  the  dingy  village  street  with 
us,  its  only  passengers,  buttoned  securely  within  its 
canvas  sails  so  that  I  could  see  Paddington  before 
us  like  an  aureole  about  the  head  of  Pelleas.  But 
if  a  grate  fire  had  been  a-light  in  that  shabby 
interior  it  could  have  cheered  us  no  more  than  did 
Cousin  Diantha's  ruddy  face  and  scarlet  mittens. 
She  gave  us  news  of  the  farm  that  teemed  with  her 
offices  of  spicing  and  frosting;  and  by  the  time  we 
reached  her  door  we  were  already  thinking  in  terms 
of  viands  and  ingredients. 

"What  a  nice  little,  white  little  room,"  said  Pelleas 
for  example,  immediately  we  had  set  our  lamp  on 
our  bureau.  "The  ceiling  looks  like  a  lemon  pie." 
Verily  are  there  not  kitchen-cupboard  houses  whose 
carpets  resemble  fruit  jelly  and  whose  bookcases 
suggest  different  kinds  of  dessert  ? 

Cousin  Diantha  was  bustling  down  the  stairs.  She 
never  walked  as  others  do  but  she  seemed  to  be 


194  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

always  hurrying  for  fear,  say,  that  the  toast  was 
burning. 

"Baked  potatoes!"  she  called  back  cheerily.  "I 
put  'em  in  last  thing  before  I  left,  an'  Katinka  says 
they're  done.  Supper's  ready  when  you  are." 

I  was  hanging  my  white  lady's-cloth  gown  under 
the  cretonne  curtain. 

"Katinka,"  I  repeated  to  Pelleas  in  a  kind  of 
absent-minded  pleasure. 

"It  sounds  like  throwing  down  a  handful  of 
spoons,"  submitted  Pelleas,  wrinkling  the  corners 
of  his  eyes. 

We  saw  Katinka  first  when  we  were  all  about  the 
table  —  Cousin  Diantha,  Miss  Waitie  who  was  her 
spinster  sister,  Pelleas  and  I,  and  Andy,  who  worked 
for  his  board.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  picture 
that  she  made  as  she  passed  the  corn  cakes, —  Katinka, 
little  maid-of-all-work,  in  a  patched  black  frock  and 
a  red  rubber  ring  and  a  red  rubber  bracelet.  Her 
face  was  round  and  polished  and  rosy  with  health,  and 
she  was  always  breathless  and  clothed  with  a  pretty 
fear  that  she  was  doing  everything  wrong.  More 
over,  she  had  her  ideas  about  serving  —  she  after 
ward  told  me  that  she  had  worked  for  a  week  at  the 
minister's  in  Paddington  where  every  one  at  break 
fast,  she  added  in  an  awed  voice,  "had  a  finger  bowl 
to  themself."  Cousin  Diantha,  good  soul,  cared 
very  little  how  her  dainties  were  served  so  that  the 


THE  MARRIAGE  OE   KATINKA  195 

table  was  kept  groaning,  and  Katinka  had  therefore 
undertaken  a  series  of  reforms  to  impress  which  she 
moved  in  a  mysterious  way.  For  example,  as  she 
handed  the  corn  cakes  and  just  as  I  raised  my  hand 
to  take  one,  steaming,  moist,  yellow  and  quite  be 
neath  my  touch,  the  plate  was  suddenly  sharply 
withdrawn,  a  spirited  revolution  of  Katinka's  hands 
ensued,  and  the  cakes  reappeared  upon  my  other 
side. 

"We  got  the  table  set  longways  o'  the  room  to 
night,"  she  explained  frankly,  "and  I  can't  hardly 
tell  which  is  left  till  I  look  at  my  ring." 

Conversation  with  Katinka  while  she  served  was, 
I  perceived,  a  habit  of  the  house;  and  indeed  Ka 
tinka's  accounts  of  kitchen  happenings  were  only 
second  in  charm  to  Katinka's  comments  upon  the 
table  talk.  It  was  to  this  informality  that  I  was 
indebted  for  chancing  on  a  radiant  mystery  on  that 
very  night  of  our  arrival. 

"Mis'  Grocer  Helman,"  said  Cousin  Diantha  to 
me  at  this  first  supper  —  every  woman  in  Pad- 
dington  has  her  husband's  occupation  for  a  surname 
—  "wants  to  come  to  see  you  about  making  over  her 
silk.  She's  heard  you  was  from  the  city  an'  she  says 
Mis'  Photographer  Bronson's  used  up  the  only  way 
she  —  Mis'  Grocer  —  knew  on  a  cheap  taffeta.  Mis' 
Grocer  Helman  won't  copy.  She's  got  a  sinful 
pride." 


196  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Katinka  set  down  the  bread  plate. 

"I  got  some  loaf  sugar  sent  up  from  Helman's 
to-day,"  she  contributed,  "because  I  just  had  to  get 
that  new  delivery  wagon  up  here  to  this  house  some 
how.  It'd  been  in  front  o'  Mis'  Lawyer  More's 
twict  in  one  forenoon." 

And  at  this  Miss  Waitie,  who  was  always  a  little 
hoarse  and  very  playful,  shook  her  head  at  Katinka. 

"Now,  new  delivery  wagon  nothing"  she  said 
skeptically;  "it's  that  curly-headed  delivery  boy,  /'// 
be  bound." 

So  it  was  in  my  very  first  hour  in  Cousin  Diantha's 
house  that  I  saw  what  those  two  good  souls  had 
never  suspected.  For  at  Miss  Waitie's  words  Andy, 
who  worked  for  his  board,  suddenly  flushed  one  ago 
nizing  red  and  spilled  the  preserves  on  the  table 
cloth.  What  more  did  any  sane  woman  need  on 
which  to  base  the  whole  pleasant  matter  ?  Andy  was 
in  love  with  Katinka. 

I  sat  up  very  straight  and  refused  the  fish  balls  in 
my  preoccupation.  My  entire  visit  to  Paddington 
quickly  resolved  itself  into  one  momentous  inquiry: 
Was  Katinka  in  love  with  Andy  ? 

"Is  Katinka  in  love  with  Andy  ?"  I  put  it  to  Pelleas 
excitedly,  when  at  last  we  were  upstairs. 

"Katinka?  Andy?  Andy?  Katinka?"  re 
sponded  Pelleas  politely. 

"Now,  one  would  think  you  were  never  in  love 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF   KATINKA  197 

yourself,"  I  chided  him,  and  fell  planning  what  on 
earth  they  would  live  on.  Why  are  so  many  little 
people  with  nothing  at  all  to  live  on  always  in  love  — 
when  every  one  knows  spinster  after  spinster  with 
an  income  apiece  ? 

I  was  not  long  in  doubt  about  Katinka.  The  very 
next  morning  I  came  upon  her  in  the  hall,  her  arms 
filled  with  kindling  for  the  parlour  fire.  I  followed 
her.  Her  dear,  bright  little  face  and  yellow  braids 
reminded  me  "of  the  kind  of  doll  that  they  never 
make  any  more. 

"Katinka,"  said  I,  lingering  shamelessly,  "do  you 
put  the  sticks  in  across  or  up  and  down  ?" 

For  it  may  very  well  be  upon  this  nice  question 
as  well  as  Angora  cats  that  Pelleas  and  I  will  have 
our  final  disagreement,  which  let  no  one  suppose  that 
we  will  really  ever  have. 

She  looked  up  to  answer  me.  The  gingham  bib 
of  her  apron  fell  down.  And  there,  pinned  to  her 
tight  little  waist,  I  beheld  —  a  button-picture  of 
Andy!  Never  tell  me  that  there  does  not  abide  in 
the  air  a  race  of  little  creatures  whose  sole  duty  it  is  to 
unveil  all  such  secrets  to  make  glad  the  gray  world. 
Never  tell  me  that  it  is  such  a  very  gray  world  either, 
if  you  wish  my  real  opinion. 

She  looked  down  and  espied  the  exposed  mystery. 
She  cast  a  frightened  glance  at  me  and  I  suppose  that 
she  saw  me,  who  am  a  very  foolish  old  woman,  smiling 


198  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

with  all  my  sympathetic  might.  At  all  events  she 
gasped  and  sat  down  among  the  kindling,  and  said :  — • 

"Oh,  ma'am,  we're  agoin'  to  be  marrit  to-morrow. 
An'  Mis'  Bethune  —  I'm  so  scairt  to  tell  'er." 

I  sat  down  too  and  caught  my  breath.  This 
blessed  generation.  I  had  been  wondering  if  these 
two  were  in  love  and  on  what  they  could  live  when 
at  last  they  should  make  up  their  minds  and  lo,  they 
were  to  be  married  to-morrow. 

"Why,  Katinka!"  said  I;  "where?" 

The  little  maid-of-all-work  sobbed  in  her  apron. 

"I  do'  know,  ma'am,"  she  said.  "Andy,  he's 
boardin'  so,  an'  I'm  a  orphing.  I  t'ought,"  men 
tioned  Katinka,  still  sobbing,  "maybe  Mis'  Bethune'd 
let  us  stand  up  by  the  dinin'-room  windy.  The 
hangin'  lamp  there  looks  some  like  a  weddin'  bell, 
Andy  t'ought." 

The  hanging  lamp  had  an  orange  shade  and  was 
done  in  dragons. 

"When  I  see  you  an'  him  las'  night,"  Katinka 
went  on,  motioning  with  her  stubby  thumb  toward 
the  absent  Pelleas,  "I  t'ought  maybe  you'd  sign  fer 
seein'  it  done.  I  tol'  Andy  so.  Mis'  Bethune,  I 
guess  she'll  be  rarin'.  I  wanted  it  to  be  in  the 
kitchen,  but  Andy,  he's  so  proud.  His  pa  was  in 
dry  goods,"  said  Katinka,  wiping  her  eyes  at  the 
mere  thought. 

Here  was  a  most  delicious  business  thrown,  as  it 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF   KATINKA  199 

were,  fairly  in  my  arms.  I  hailed  it  with  delight, 
and  sat  holding  my  elbows  and  planning  with  all  my 
might. 

"Katinka,"  said  I  portentously,  "you  leave  where 
you  are  to  be  married  to  me." 

"Oh,  ma'am!"  said  Katinka. 

I  never  had  more  earnest  appreciation. 

Cousin  Diantha  Bethune  was  heard  calling  her 
at  that  moment,  and  Katinka  went  off  with  the  coals 
quite  as  if  the  next  day  were  not  to  see  her  a  bride, 
married  in  the  parlour. 

For  I  was  determined  that  the  wedding  should  be 
in  the  parlour,  and  I  spent  a  most  feverish  day.  I 
made  repeated  visits  to  the  kitchen  and  held  consul 
tations  with  the  little  maid,  whose  cheeks  grew  rosy 
and  whose  eyes  grew  bright  at  the  heaven  of  having 
some  one  in  the  world  interested  in  her. 

While  she  washed  the  dishes  she  told  me  that  she 
and  Andy  had  saved  enough  to  live  for  three  months 
at  Mis'  Slocum's  boarding  house.  After  that  the 
future  was  a  pleasant  but  indefeasible  mystery. 
While  she  cleaned  the  knives  I  slipped  down  to  find 
whether  Andy  had  remembered  to  engage  the  parson ; 
and  he  had  done  so,  but  at  the  risk  of  having  the 
ceremony  performed  in  the  scullery  as  the  only  avail 
able  apartment.  Andy,  it  appeared,  objected  to 
being  married  at  the  parson's  house;  and  Katinka 
seemed  to  think  that  this  also  was  because  his 


200  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

father  had  been  "in  dry  goods."  At  our  last  con 
ference,  during  lamp  cleaning,  I  advised  Katinka 
to  break  the  news  to  Cousin  Diantha  Bethune  im 
mediately  after  supper  when  we  were  still  at  table. 
Katinka  promised  and  her  mouth  quivered  at  the 
thought. 

"She'll  never  hev  us  in  the  parlour,  not  in  this 
world,  ma'am,"  she  said  to  me  hopelessly,  "not  with 
that  new  three-ply  ingrain  on  the  floor." 

Meanwhile  I  had  told  Pelleas  who,  though  he  is 
sometimes  disposed  to  pretend  to  scoff  at  romance 
which  he  does  not  himself  discover,  was  yet  ade 
quately  sympathetic.  At  supper  we  were  both  ab 
surdly  excited,  and  Pelleas  heaped  little  attentions 
on  Andy  who  ate  nothing  and  kept  brushing  im 
aginary  flies  from  before  his  face  to  show  how 
much  at  ease  he  was.  And  after  the  last  plate 
of  hot  bread  had  been  brought  in  I  wonder  now 
at  my  own  self-possession;  for  I  knew  there 
after  that  little  Katinka,  by  the  crack  in  the 
pantry  door,  was  waiting  the  self-imposed  signal 
of  Cousin  Diantha's  folded  napkin.  When  this 
came  she  popped  into  the  room  like  a  kind 
of  toy  and  stood  directly  back  of  Cousin  Diantha's 
chair. 

"Please,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "Andy  an'  me's  goin' 
to  get  marrit." 

Andy,  one  blush,  rose  and  shambled  spryly  to  her 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF   KATINKA  201 

side  and  caught  at  her  hand  and  stood  with  glazing 
eyes. 

Cousin  Diantha  wheeled  in  her  chair  and  her 
plate  danced  on  the  table.  My  heart  was  in  my 
mouth  and  I  confess  that  I  was  prepared  for  a  dud 
geon  such  as  only  mistresses  know  when  maids  have 
the  temerity  to  wish  to  marry.  In  that  moment  I 
found,  to  my  misery,  that  I  had  forgotten  every  one  of 
my  arguments  about  young  love  and  the  way  of  the 
world  and  the  durability  of  three-ply  ingrain  carpets, 
and  I  did  nothing  but  sit  trembling  and  fluttering 
for  all  the  world  as  if  it^were  my  own  wedding  at 
stake.  I  looked  beseechingly  at  Pelleas,  and  he 
nodded  and  smiled  and  rubbed  his  hands  under  the 
tablecloth  —  O,  I  could  not  have  loved  a  man  who 
would  look  either  judicious  or  doubtful  as  do  too 
many  at  the  very  mention  of  any  one's  marriage  but 
their  own. 

Dimly  I  saw  Cousin  Diantha  look  over  her  spec 
tacles;  I  heard  her  amazed  "Bless  us,  Katinka ! 
What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  And  I  half  heard  the 
little  maid  add  "To-morrow"  quite  without  expres 
sion  as  she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  loyally  followed 
by  Andy.  And  then,  being  an  old  woman  and  no 
longer  able  to  mask  my  desire  to  interfere  in  every 
thing,  I  was  about  to  have  the  last  word  when  Cousin 
Diantha  turned  to  me  and  spoke :  — 

"Listen  at  that!"  she  cried;  "listen  at  that!    To- 


202  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

morrow  —  an'  not  a  scrap  o'  cake  in  this  house  !  An5 
a  real  good  fruit  cake  had  ought  to  be  three  months 
old  at  the  least.  I  declare,  it  don't  seem  as  if  a  wed 
ding  could  be  legal  on  sponge  cake !" 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears.  Not  a  word  against 
the  parlour,  no  mention  of  the  three-ply  ingrain  nor 
any  protest  at  all.  Cousin  Diantha's  one  appre 
hension  was  concerning  the  legality  of  weddings 
not  solemnized  in  the  presence  of  a  three-months- 
old  fruit  cake.  The  mince-pie-and-plum-pudding 
branch  of  our  family  had  risen  to  the  occasion  as 
nobly  as  if  she  had  been  steeped  in  sentiment. 

Upstairs  Pelleas  and  I  laughed  and  well-nigh  cried 
about  it. 

"And  Pelleas,"  I  told  him,  "Pelleas,  you  see  it 
doesn't  matter  in  the  least  whether  it's  romance  or 
cooking  that's  accountable  so  long  as  your  heart  is 
right." 

So  it  was  settled ;  and  I  lay  long  awake  that  night 
and  planned  which  door  they  should  come  in  and 
what  flowers  I  could  manage  and  what  I  could  find 
for  a  little  present.  Here  at  last,  I  thought  trium 
phantly  as  I  was  dropping  asleep,  was  a  chance  to 
overcome  Nichola  by  the  news  that  I  had  actually 
found  another  wedding  at  which  to  wear  my  white 
lady's-cloth  gown. 

With  that  I  sat  suddenly  erect,  fairly  startled  from 
my  sleep. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  KATINKA  203 

What  was  Katinka  to  wear? 

Alas,  I  have  never  been  so  firmly  convinced  that  I 
am  really  seventy  as  when  I  think  how  I  remembered 
even  the  parson  and  yet  could  forget  Katinka's 
wedding  gown. 

Immediately  I  roused  Pelleas. 

"Pelleas!"  I  cried,  "what  do  you  suppose  that 
dear  child  can  be  married  in  ?" 

Pelleas  awoke  with  a  logical  mind. 

"In  the  parlour,  I  thought,"  said  he. 

"But  what  will  she  wear,  Pelleas?"  I  inquired 
feverishly;  "what  can  she  wear?  I  don't  suppose 
the  poor  child  — " 

"I  thought  she  looked  very  well  to-night,"  he  sub 
mitted  sleepily;  "couldn't  she  wear  that?"  And 
drifted  into  dreams. 

Wear  that!  The  little  tight  black  frock  in  which 
she  served.  Really,  for  a  man  who  is  adorable, 
Pelleas  at  times  can  seem  stupid  enough,  though  he 
never  really  is  stupid. 

I  lay  for  a  little  while  looking  out  the  high  window 
at  the  Paddington  stars  which  some  way  seemed 
unlike  town  stars.  And  on  a  sudden  I  smiled  back 
at  them,  and  lay  smiling  at  them  for  a  long  time. 
For  little  Katinka  was  very  nearly  my  size  and  I 
knew  what  she  was  to  wear  at  her  wedding.  My 
white  lady's-cloth  gown. 

As  soon  as  her  work  was  done  next  morning  I  called 


204  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

her  to  my  room.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  and  she  was 
to  be  married  at  twelve. 

"Katinka,"  said  I  solemnly,  "what  are  you 
going  to  wear,  child,  to  be  married  in  ?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  tight  little  black  gown. 

"I  t'ought  o'  that,"  said  the  poor  little  thing  un- 
certainjy,  "but  I  haven't  got  nothink  nicer  than  what 
this  is." 

She  had  thought  of  that.  The  tears  were  in  my 
eyes  as  I  turned  to  the  cretonne  curtain  and  pulled 
it  aside. 

"Look,  Katinka,"  I  said;  "you  are  going  to  wear 
this." 

There  hung  the  white  lady's-cloth  in  all  its  bravery 
of  chiffon  and  fichu  and  silver  buttons.  Katinka 
looked  once  at  that  splendour  and  smiled  patiently, 
as  one  who  is  wonted  to  everything  but  surprises. 

"La,  ma'am,"  she  humoured  me,  pretending  to 
appreciate  my  jest. 

When  at  last  she  understood,  the  poor  little  soul 
broke  down  and  cried  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  I  know 
of  no  sadder  sight  than  the  tears  of  one  to  whom  they 
are  the  only  means  of  self-expression. 

Never  did  gown  fit  so  beautifully.  Never  was  one 
of  so  nearly  the  proper  length.  Never  was  such  ele 
gance.  When  she  was  quite  ready,  the  red  ring 
and  red  bracelet  having  been  added  at  her  request, 
Katinka  stood  on  a  chair  to  have  a  better  view  in  the 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF   KATINKA  205 

little  mirror  above  my  washbasin,  and  she  stepped 
down  awe-struck. 

"O,  ma'am,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "I  look  like  I 
was  ready  to  be  laid  out." 

Then  she  went  to  the  poor,  tawdry  things  of  her 
own  which  she  had  brought  to  my  room,  and  selected 
something.  It  was  a  shabby  plush  book  decorated 
with  silk  flowers  and  showing  dog-eared  gilt  leaves. 

"I  thought  I'd  carry  this  here,"  she  said  shyly. 

I  opened  the  book.  And  my  eye  fell  on  these 
words  written  in  letters  which  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  dropped  on  the  page  from  a  sieve :  — 

There  may  be  sugar  and  there  may  be  spice 
But  you  are  the  one  I  shall  ever  call  nice. 

It  was  an  autograph  album. 

"Why,  Katinka,"  I  said,  "what  for?" 

"Well,"  she  explained,  "I  know  in  the  fashion 
pictures  brides  allus  carries  books.  I  ain't  got  no 
other  book  than  what  this  is.  An'  this  was  mother's 
book  —  it's  all  of  hers  I've  got — and  I  t'ought — " 

"Carry  it,  child,"  I  said,  and  little  Katinka  went 
down  the  stairs  with  the  album  for  a  prayer-book. 

And  lo  !  as  the  door  opened  my  heart  was  set  beat 
ing.  For  there  was  music;  the  reed  organ  in  the 
parlour  was  played  furiously;  and  I  at  once  realized 
that  Pelleas  was  presiding,  performing  the  one  tune 
that  he  knows :  The  long-meter  doxology. 


206  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

The  parlour  blinds  were  open,  the  geraniums  had 
been  brought  up  from  the  cellar  to  grace  the  sills,  and 
as  crowning  symbol  of  festivity  Cousin  Diantha  had 
shaken  about  the  room  a  handkerchief  wet  with 
cologne.  Miss  Waitie  had  contributed  the  presence 
of  her  best  dress.  Andy,  blushing,  waited  by  the 
window  under  the  transferred  wedding  bell  of  drag 
ons,  pretending  to  talk  with  the  parson  and  continually 
brushing  imaginary  flies  from  before  his  face.  When 
he  saw  Katinka  he  changed  countenance  and  fairly 
joined  in  the  amazed  "Ah  !"  of  the  others.  Indeed 
the  parson  began  the  ceremony  with  Andy's  honest 
eyes  still  reverently  fixed  on  Katinka's  gown. 

There  was  but  one  break  in  the  proceedings. 
Pelleas,  at  Cousin  Diantha's  urgent  request  at 
tempting  to  play  softly  through  the  ceremony, 
reckoned  without  one  of  the  keys  which  stuck 
fast  with  a  long,  buzzing  sound  and  could  not 
be  released  though  every  one  had  a  hand  at  it. 
And  finally  Katinka  herself,  who  had  dusted  the 
keyboard  for  so  long  that  she  understood  it,  had 
to  come  to  the  rescue  while  the  parson  waited  for 
her  "I  will." 

As  for  me,  by  the  time  that  it  was  all  over  I  was 
crying  softly  behind  the  stove  with  as  much  enjoy 
ment  as  if  I  had  been  Katinka's  mother.  And  not 
until  I  bent  my  head  to  hide  a  tear  did  I  perceive 
that  I  had  not  changed  my  gown  that  morning. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF   KATINKA  207 

As  if  because  one  is  seventy  that  is  reason  for 
losing  one's  self-respect ! 

Pelleas  put  the  rest  in  my  head. 

"Etarre,"  he  said,  while  we  were  having  cherry 
sauce  and  seedcakes  after  the  ceremony,  "you've  got 
your  gray  gown,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  I,  not  understanding. 

"And  you  don't  really  need  that  white  one.  .  .  ." 
He  hesitated. 

I  saw  what  he  meant.  We  looked  across  at  the 
little  bride,  speechlessly  happy  in  my  old  woman's 
finery. 

"Not  a  bit,"  I  said,  loving  Pelleas  for  his  thought. 

We  smiled  at  each  other  with  the  tidings  of  a  new 
secret. 

That  is  why,  when  we  reached  home  three  nights 
later,  we  permitted  Nichola  to  unpack  our  trunk 
and  had  no  fear.  The  white  lady's-cloth  gown  was 
not  there. 


XI 

THE    CHRISTENING 

THE  christening  of  Enid's  baby,  delayed  until 
David's  return  from  Washington,  was  to  be  at  our 
house  because  Enid  and  her  little  son  had  already 
come  to  us,  but  we,  being  past  seventy,  could  not  so 
easily  go  up  in  Connecticut  to  Enid.  At  all  events 
that  was  what  they  told  us,  though  Pelleas  and  I 
smiled  somewhat  sadly  as  we  permitted  our  age  to 
bear  the  burden  of  our  indolence.  Besides,  I  would 
always  be  hostess  rather  than  guest,  for  the  hostess 
seems  essentially  creative  and  the  guest  pathetically 
the  commodity. 

Therefore  on  a  day  in  May  we  rose  early  and  found 
our  shabby  drawing-room  a  kind  of  temple  of  hya 
cinths,  and  every  one  in  the  room  —  by  whom  I  mean 
its  permanent  inhabitants  —  rejoicing.  The  marble 
Ariadne,  on  a  pedestal  in  a  dark  corner,  guided  her 
panther  on  a  field  of  jonquils  which  they  two  must 
have  preferred  to  asphodel;  the  Lady  Hamilton 
who  lived  over  the  low  shelves  folded  her  hands  above 
a  very  home  of  Spring;  and  once,  having  for  a  mo 
ment  turned  away,  I  could  have  been  certain  that  the 

208 


THE  CHRISTENING  209 

blindfold  Hope  above  the  mantel  smote  her  harp 
softly,  just  loud  enough,  say,  for  a  daffodil  to  hear. 

"Ah,  Pelleas,"  I  cried,  "one  would  almost  say 
that  this  is  The  Day  —  you  know,  the  day  that  one 
is  expecting  all  one's  life  and  that  never  comes 
precisely  as  one  planned." 

"Only,"  Pelleas  supplemented  positively,  "this  is 
much  nicer  than  that  day." 

"Much,"  I  agreed,  and  we  both  laughed  like 
children  waiting  to  be  christened  ourselves. 

Pelleas  was  to  be  godfather  —  I  said  by  virtue  of 
his  age,  but  Enid,  whose  words  said  backward  I 
prefer  to  those  of  many  others  in  their  proper  order, 
insisted  that  it  was  by  office  of  his  virtue.  There 
were  to  be  present  only  the  Chartres'  and  the 
Cleatams,  Miss  Lillieblade  and  Lisa  and  Hobart 
Eddy  and  a  handful  besides  —  all  our  nearest  and 
dearest  and  no  one  else;  although,  "Ah,  me,"  cried 
Madame  Sally  Chartres  while  we  waited,  "haven't 
you  invited  every  one  who  has  lately  invited  you  to  a 
christening  ?"  And  on,  so  to  speak,  our  positive  neg 
ative,  she  added :  "  Really,  I  would  have  said  that  in 
these  social  days  no  one  is  even  asked  to  a  funeral 
who  has  not  very  recently  had  a  sumptuous  funeral 
of  her  own." 

"Who  was  my  godfather  ?"  Pelleas  asked  morosely. 
"I  don't  think  I  ever  had  a  godfather.  I  don't  know 
that  I  ever  was  christened.  Have  I  any  proof  that 
p 


2io  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

I  was  named  what  I  was  named  ?  I  only  know  it 
by  hearsay.  And  how  glaringly  unscientific." 

"You  are  only  wanting,"  cried  Madame  Polly 
Cleatam,  shaking  her  curls,  "to  be  fashionably 
doubtful!" 

"Religions  have  been  thrown  away  by  persons 
who  had  no  more  authentic  doubts,"  Pelleas  gravely 
maintained. 

"I  dare  say,"  Miss  Lillieblade  piped.  "In  these 
days  if  a  man  has  an  old  coat  he  puts  on  a  new  doubt, 
and  society  is  satisfied." 

Thereafter  the  baby  arrived,  a  mere  collection  of 
hand  embroidery  and  lace,  with  an  angel  in  the 
midst  of  these  soft  billows.  The  baby  looked  quite 
like  a  photograph  made  by  the  new  school,  with  the 
high  lights  on  long  sweeping  skirts  and  away  up  at 
the  top  of  the  picture  a  vague,  delicious  face.  Our 
grandniece  Enid  is  an  adorable  little  mother,  look 
ing  no  less  like  a  mermaid  than  does  Lisa,  but  with  a 
light  in  her  eyes  as  if  still  more  of  the  mystery  of  the 
sea  were  come  upon  her.  And,  as  a  mer-mother 
should,  she  had  conversation  not  exclusively  con 
fined  to  the  mer-child.  I  heard  her  on  the  subject 
of  prints  with  the  bishop's  lady,  and  the  mer-child  was 
not  three  months  old. 

The  christening  was  to  have  been  at  eleven  o'clock, 
and  at  twelve  Pelleas  had  an  appointment  which  it 
was  impossible  to  delay,  or  so  he  thought,  having  a 


THE  CHRISTENING  211 

most  masculine  regard  for  hours,  facts,  and  the  like. 
Therefore  when,  at  fifteen  after  eleven,  the  bishop 
had  not  yet  arrived,  Pelleas  began  uneasily  sug 
gesting  taking  leave.  Enid  looked  at  him  with  a 
kind  of  deep-sea-cave  reproach  before  which  every 
one  else  would  have  been  helpless ;  but  Pelleas,  whose 
nature  is  built  on  straight  lines,  patted  her  and  kissed 
the  baby  at  large  upon  the  chest  and,  benign,  was 
still  inexorable. 

"But  who  will  be  godfather?"  Enid  cried  discon 
solately,  and,  young-wife-like,  looked  reproachfully 
at  her  young  husband. 

At  that  moment  the  hall  door,  as  if  it  had  been  an 
attentive  listener  as  long  as  it  could  and  must  now 
give  the  true  answer,  opened  and  admitted  Hobart 
Eddy,  come  late  to  the  christening  and  arrived  with 
that  vague  air  of  asking  why  he  was  where  he  was 
which  lent  to  him  all  the  charm  of  ennui  without  its 
bad  taste. 

"Hobart,"  Enid  cried  ecstatically,  "you  shall  be 
godfather!" 

Hobart  Eddy  continued  to  bend  to  kiss  my  hand 
and  then  sought  the  hand  of  Madame  Sally  and  next 
the  hand  of  Madame  Polly  Cleatam.  Finally  he 
bowed  before  Enid  and  fixed  his  monocle  on  the  baby. 

"It  opens  and  shuts  its  eyes,"  he  earnestly  ob 
served;  "how  these  baby  people  imitate  the  doll 
factories.  It's  disgraceful." 


212  LOVES   OF    PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"Kiss  him!"  the  mer-mother  commanded,  as  if 
she  were  the  prompter. 

Hobart  Eddy  obediently  kissed  the  baby's  thumb. 

"Man  and  brother,"  he  greeted  him  solemnly; 
"Lord,  to  think  Fll  take  it  to  luncheon  sometime 
and  hear  it  know  more  about  the  town  than  I  do." 

"At  all  events,"  Madame  Sally  Chartres  begged 
gravely,  "don't  ask  him  to  lunch  until  he's  been 
christened.  In  Society  you  have  to  have  a  name." 

"  But,"  Enid  settled  it  with  pretty  peremptoriness, 
"you  must  be  godfather  even  if  he  never  lunches. 
Hobart  —  you  will  ?" 

"Its  godfather?"  said  Hobart  Eddy.  "I?  But 
yes,  with  all  pleasure.  What  do  I  have  to  do  ?  Is 
there  more  than  one  figure?" 

When  at  length  the  arrival  of  the  bishop  followed 
close  on  the  departure  of  Pelleas,  regretful  but  ab 
surdly  firm,  we  were  in  a  merry  clamour  of  instruc 
tion.  The  situation  had  caught  our  fancy  and  this 
was  no  great  marvel.  For  assuredly  Hobart  Eddy 
was  not  the  typical  godfather. 

"On  my  honour,"  he  said,  "I  never  was  even 
'among  those'  at  a  christening,  in  my  life,  and  I 
would  go  a  great  distance  to  be  godfather.  It's 
about  the  only  ambition  I've  never  had  and  lost." 

The  service  of  the  christening  holds  for  me  a 
poignant  solemnity.  And  because  this  was  Enid's 
baby  and  because  I  remembered  that  hour  in  which 


THE  CHRISTENING  213 

he  had  seemed  to  be  Pelleas'  dream  and  mine  come 
back,  my  heart  was  overflowingly  full.  But  I  missed 
Pelleas  absurdly,  for  this  was  one  of  the  hours  in 
which  we  listen  best  together;  and  to  have  learned 
to  listen  with  some  one  brings,  in  that  other's  ab 
sence,  a  silence.  But  it  was  a  happy  hour,  for  the 
sun  streamed  gayly  across  the  window-boxes,  there 
were  the  dear  faces  of  our  friends,  the  mer-mother 
and  her  young  husband  were  near  to  joyful  tears  and 
the  bishop's  voice  was  like  an  organ  chord  in  finer, 
fluttering  melody.  Through  the  saying  of  prayer 
and  collects  I  stood  with  uplifting  heart;  and  then 
Enid's  husband  gave  the  baby's  name  with  a  boyish 
tremble  in  his  voice;  and  after  the  baptism  and  its 
formalities  the  bishop  read  the  words  that  were  the 
heart  of  the  whok  matter;  and  the  heart  of  a  matter 
does  not  always  beat  in  the  moment's  uplift. 

"'And  thou,  Child,9  the  bishop  read,  l shalt  be  called 
the  prophet  of  the  Highest;  for  thou  shalt  go  before 
the  face  of  the  Lord  to  prepare  His  ways. 

'"Through  the  tender  mercy  of  our  Lord,  whereby 
the  day  spring  from  on  high  hath  visited  us. 

"To  give  light  to  them  that  sit  in  darkness  and  in 
the  shadow  of  death,  to  guide  our  feet  into  the  way  of 
peace."9 

As  he  read  a  hush  fell  upon  us.  It  seemed  suddenly 
as  if  our  conventional  impulse  to  see  Enid's  baby 
christened  was  an  affair  of  more  radiant  import  than 


2i4  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

we  had  meant.  From  the  words  of  exhortation  that 
followed  I  was  roused  by  a  touching  of  garments,  and 
I  looked  up  to  see  a  trim,  embroidered  maid  holding 
the  baby  toward  Hobart  Eddy.  The  moment  for 
his  service  as  godfather  was  come.  As  he  held  out 
his  arms  he  questioned  Enid  briefly  with  his  eyes, 
and  then  earnestly  gave  himself  to  establishing  the 
little  man  and  brother  in  a  curve  of  elbow.  It  was 
after  all,  I  suppose  him  to  have  been  reflecting, 
as  sternly  required  of  a  man  that  he  be  an 
efficient  godfather  as  that  he  perfectly  fill  all  the 
other  offices  of  a  man  of  the  world.  I  even 
suspected  him  of  a  downward  glance  to  be  as 
sured  that  the  soft  skirts  were  gracefully  in  place, 
quite  as  if  he  were  arranging  tableaux  vivants. 
Thereafter  he  stood  erect,  with  his  complaisant 
passivity  of  look,  as  perfectly  the  social  autom 
aton  as  if  the  baby  were  a  cup  of  tea.  Really,  to 
accept  dear  Hobart  Eddy  as  godfather  was  rather 
like  filling  a  champagne  glass  with  cream. 

"What  shall  be  the  name  of  this  child  ?"  once  more 
demanded  the  bishop. 

"Philip  Wentworth,"  prompted  the  young  father 
a  second  time,  presenting  a  serious,  young-father 
profile  to  the  world. 

The  bishop  waited. 

"Philip  Wentworth,"  obediently  repeated  Hobart 
Eddy  with,  I  dare  be  sworn,  the  little  deferential 


THE   CHRISTENING  215 

stooping  of  the  shoulders  with  which  I  had  seen  him 
return  many  and  many  a  fan. 

The  bishop,  his  face  filled  with  that  shining  which 
even  in  gravity  seemed  sweeter  than  the  smile  of 
another,  fixed  his  deep  eyes  upon  the  godfather,  and 
when  he  spoke  it  was  as  if  he  were  saying  the  words 
for  the  first  time,  to  the  guardian  of  the  first  child :  — 

"'Dost  thou,  in  the  name  of  this  Child,  renounce 
.  .  .  the  vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  with  all 
covetous  desires  of  the  same,  and  the  sinful  desires  of 
the  flesh,  so  that  thou  wilt  not  follow  nor  be  led  by 
them?'" 

Hobart,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  open  prayer-book 
which  he  held,  read  the  response  quickly  and  clearly : 

"'I  renounce  them  all,  and  by  God's  help  I  will 
endeavour  not  to  follow  or  be  led  by  them." 

"'Wilt  thou,  then,'"  pursued  the  bishop  benignly, 
"'obediently  keep  God's  holy  will  and  command 
ments  and  walk  in  the  same  all  the  days  of  thy  life  ?" 

"'I  will,'"  said  Hobart  Eddy,  "'by  God's  help/" 

There  was  no  slightest  hesitation,  no  thought, 
or  so  it  seemed  to  me;  only  the  old  urbane  readiness 
to  say  what  was  required  of  him.  What  had  he  said, 
what  had  he  done,  this  young  lion  of  the  social  mo 
ment,  beau,  gallant,  dilettante,  and  was  it  possible 
that  he  did  not  understand  what  he  had  promised  ? 
Or  was  I  a  stupid  and  exacting  old  woman  taking  with 
convulsive  literalness  that  which  all  the  world  per- 


2i6  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

haps  recognizes  as  a  form  of  promise  for  the  mere 
civilized  upbringing  of  a  child  ?  I  tried  to  remember 
other  godfathers  and  I  could  remember  only  those 
who,  like  Pelleas,  had  indeed  served,  as  Enid  had 
said  in  jest,  by  office  of  their  virtue.  And  yet  Hobart 
Eddy  —  after  all  I  told  myself  he  was  a  fine,  upright 
young  fellow  who  paid  his  debts,  kept  his  engage 
ments,  whose  name  was  untouched  by  a  breath  of 
scandal,  who  lived  clear  of  gossip ;  so  I  went  through 
the  world's  dreary  catalogue  of  the  primal  virtues. 
But  what  had  these  to  do  with  that  solemn  "I 
renounce  them  all"? 

By  the  time  that  the  service  was  well  over  I  could 
have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  proclaim  to  our  guests 
that,  as  the  world  construed  it,  a  christening  seemed 
to  me  hardly  more  vital  than  the  breakfast  which 
would  follow. 

This  however  I  forbore;  and  at  the  end  every  one 
pressed  forward  in  quite  the  conventional  way  and 
besieged  the  baby  and  Hobart  and  showered  con 
gratulations  upon  them  both  and  kissed  Enid  and 
was  as  merry  as  possible.  And  as  for  Hobart,  he 
stood  in  their  midst,  bowing  a  little  this  way  and 
that,  giving  his  graceful  flatteries  as  another  man 
gives  the  commonplaces,  complaisant,  urbane,  heavy- 
lidded 

I  omitted  the  baby  and  looked  straight  at  the  god 
father. 


THE  CHRISTENING  217 

"How  do  you  like  the  office?"  I  asked  somewhat 
dryly. 

He  met  my  eyes  with  his  level  look. 

"Dear  friend,"  he  said  softly,  "you  see  how  in 
efficient  I  am.  Even  to  describe  your  charming 
christening  toilet  is  my  despair." 

"Hobart  Eddy,"  said  I  sharply,  "take  Enid  in  to 
breakfast." 

While  May  was  still  stepping  about  the  fields  loath 
to  leave  her  business  of  violets  and  ladywort,  Madame 
Sally  Chartres  sent  pleasant  word  from  Long  Island 
that  a  dozen  or  more  of  her  friends  were  to  spend  a  day 
with  her,  and  no  one  would  willingly  disregard  the 
summons.  The  Chartres'  lived  on  the  edge  of  an 
orchard  and  another  edge  of  field.  I  dare  say  they 
lived  in  a  house  although  what  I  chiefly  remember  is  a 
colonnade  of  white  pillars,  a  library  shelved  to  the 
ceiling,  and  a  sprinkling  of  mighty  cushioned  window 
seats  whereon  the  sun  forever  streamed  through  lat 
tices.  Perhaps  Madame  Sally  and  Wilfred  had  assem 
bled  these  things  near  an  orchard  and  considered  that 
to  be  house  enough.  At  all  events  there  could  have 
been  no  fairer  place  for  a  Spring  holiday. 

Pelleas  and  I  went  down  by  train,  and  the  morn 
ing  was  so  golden  that  I  wholly  expected  to  divine  a 
procession  of  nymphs  defiling  faintly  across  the  fields 
in  a  cloud  of  blossoms  rooted  in  air.  I  have  often 


2i8  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

wondered  why  goblins,  dryads  and  the  like  do  not 
more  frequently  appear  to  folk  on  railway  trains. 
These  shy  ones  would  be  quite  safe,  for  by  the  time 
the  bell  rope  should  have  been  pulled  and  the 
conductor  told  why  the  train  must  be  stopped  and 
the  engine  and  cars  brought  effectually  to  a  stand 
still,  the  little  shadowy  things  could  have  vanished 
safely  against  the  blue.  Perhaps  they  do  not  un 
derstand  how  sadly  long  it  takes  a  spirit  to  influence 
the  wheels  of  civilization. 

The  others  coached  down  to  the  Chartres*  with 
Hobart  Eddy,  although  there  must  be  made  one  im 
portant  exception:  Madame  Sally  had  insisted  that 
Enid  bring  the  baby;  and  Enid  and  her  husband, 
who  since  the  christening  were  lingering  on  in  town, 
had  given  the  baby  and  his  new  nurse  to  the  charge 
of  Pelleas  and  me.  We  arrived  ahead  of  the  coach 
and  stood  on  the  veranda  to  welcome  the  others. 

Lisa  was  among  these,  with  Eric  at  her  side;  and 
Madame  Polly  and  Horace  Cleatam  and  Miss  Lillie- 
blade,  all  three  in  spite  of  their  white  hair  and  anx 
iety  about  draughts  stoutly  refusing  to  ride  inside. 
There  were  four  or  five  others,  and  from  the  box 
seat  beside  Hobart  Eddy  I  saw  descending  with 
what  I  am  bound  to  call  picturesque  deliberation  a 
figure  whom  I  did  not  remember. 

"Pray  who  is  that  ?"  there  was  time  for  me  to  ask 
Madame  Sally. 


THE  CHRISTENING  219 

"My  dear,"  she  answered  hurriedly,  "she  is  a 
Mrs.  Trempleau.  I  used  to  love  her  mother.  And 
Hobart  wanted  her  here." 

"Hobart!"  I  exclaimed.  "That  Mrs.  Trem 
pleau?"  I  comprehended.  "You  don't  think  .  .  ." 
I  intimated. 

Madame  Sally's  eyebrows  were  more  expressive 
than  the  eyes  of  many. 

"Who  knows?"  she  said  only,  and  made  of  her 
eyebrows  a  positive  welcome  to  our  friends. 

Mrs.  Trempleau  came  toward  us  flickering  prettily 
—  I  protest  that  she  reminded  me  of  a  thin  flame, 
luminous,  agile,  seeking.  She  had  hair  like  the  lights 
in  agate,  and  for  its  sake  her  gown  and  hat  were  of 
something  coloured  like  the  reflection  of  the  sun  in 
a  shield  of  copper.  She  had  a  fashion  of  threading 
her  way  through  an  hour  of  talk,  lighting  a  jest  here, 
burning  a  bit  of  irony  there,  smouldering  dangerously 
near  the  line  of  daring.  And  that  day  as  she  moved 
from  group  to  group  on  the  veranda  the  eyes  of  us 
all,  of  whom  Hobart  Eddy  was  chief,  were  following 
her.  I  think  it  may  have  been  because  her  soul  was 
of  some  alien  element  like  the  intense,  avid  spirit  of 
the  flames,  though  when  I  told  Pelleas  he  argued  that 
it  was  merely  the  way  she  lifted  her  eyes. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Trempleau?"  Pelleas  added, 
his  nature  as  I  have  said  being  built  on  straight 
lines. 


220  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"There  may  be  one,"  I  answered,  "but  I  think  he 
lives  on  some  other  continent." 

Pelleas  reflected. 

"Hobart  Eddy  and  Pelham  and  Clox  look  in  love 
with  her,"  he  said;  "if  she  doesn't  take  care  there 
won't  be  enough  continents." 

In  no  small  amusement  during  luncheon  we 
watched  Hobart  Eddy,  especially  Pelleas  and  I  who, 
however,  besides  being  amused,  were  also  a  little  sad. 
Mrs.  Trempleau's  appropriation  of  him  was  insistent 
but  very  pretty.  Indeed,  if  she  had  on  a  night  of 
stars  appropriated  Sirius  I  dare  say  the  constella 
tions  would  have  sung  approval.  She  had  the  usual 
gift  of  attractive  faults.  But  above  Mrs.  Trem 
pleau's  shoulders  and  beyond  the  brightness  of  her 
hair  I  had,  at  luncheon,  glimpses  which  effectually 
besought  my  attention  from  the  drama  within.  The 
long  windows  overlooked  the  May  orchards,  white 
and  sweet  and  made  like  youth,  and  I  was  impatient 
to  be  free  of  the  woman's  little  darting  laughs  and 
away  to  the  fields.  Some  way,  in  her  presence  it 
was  not  like  May. 

Therefore,  when  Pelleas  had  been  borne  to  the 
stables  by  his  host  and  when  the  others  had  wandered 
back  to  the  veranda,  I  went  away  down  what  I  think 
must  have  been  a  corridor,  though  all  that  I  remember 
is  a  long  open  window  leading  to  the  Spring,  as  if  on£ 
were  to  unlatch  an  airy  door  and  reveal  a  diviner 


THE  CHRISTENING  221 

prospect  than  our  air  infolds.  A  lawn,  cut  by  a 
gravel  walk  bounded  by  tulips,  sloped  away  from 
this  window  to  the  orchard  and  I  crossed  the  green  in 
the  frank  hope  that  the  others  would  not  seek  me 
out.  But  when  I  turned  the  corner  by  the  dial  I  came 
fairly  on  two  other  wanderers.  There,  with  the 
white-embroidered  nurse-maid,  sat,  like  another  way 
of  expressing  the  Spring,  Enid's  baby.  Was  ever 
such  happy  chance  befallen  at  the  gate  of  any  May 
orchard  whatever  ? 

"Ah,"  I  cried  to  the  little  nurse,  "Bonnie  !  Come 
quickly.  I  see  a  place  —  there  —  or  there  —  or  there 
—  where  you  must  bring  the  baby  at  once  —  at  once  ! 
Leave  the  perambulator  here  —  so.  He  is  awake  ? 
Then  quickly  —  this  way  —  to  the  pink  crab  apple- 


tree." 


I  sometimes  believe  that  in  certain  happy  case  I 
find  every  one  beautiful;  but  I  recall  that  Bonnie  — 
of  whom  I  shall  have  more  to  tell  hereafter  —  that 
day  seemed  to  me  so  charming  that  I  suspected 
her  of  being  Persephone,  with  an  inherited  trick 
of  caring  for  the  baby  as  her  mother  cared  for 
Demophoon. 

To  the  pink  crab  apple-tree !  What  a  destination. 
It  had  for  me  all  the  delight  of  running  toward,  say, 
the  plane  tree  in  the  meadow  of  Buyukdere.  I 
remember  old  branches  looking  like  the  arms  of  Pan, 
wreath-wound,  and  rooms  of  sun  through  which 


222    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

petals  drifted  .  .  .  who  could  distinctly  recall  the 
raiment  of  such  an  hour  ?  But  at  length  by  many 
aisles  we  came  to  a  little  hollow  where  the  grass  was 
greenest,  hard  by  the  orchard  arbour,  and  we  stood 
before  the  giant  pink  crab-apple  tree.  Has  any 
one  ever  wondered  that  Sicilian  courtiers  went  out 
a-shepherding  and  that  the  Round  Table,  warned  to 
green  gowns,  fared  forth  a-Maying  ? 

"Spread  the  baby's  rug!"  I  cried  to  Bonnie; 
"here  is  a  little  seat  made  in  the  roots  for  this  very 
day.  Pull  him  a  branch  of  apple  blossoms  —  so. 
And  now  run  away,  child,  and  amuse  yourself.  The 
baby  and  I  are  going  to  make  an  apple-blossom  pie." 

Bonnie,  hesitating,  at  my  more  peremptory  bidding 
went  away.  I  have  no  idea  whether  she  was  caught 
up  among  the  branches  by  friendly  hands  or  whether 
the  nearest  tree  trunk  hospitably  opened  to  receive 
her.  But  there,  in  May,  with  the  world  gone  off  in 
another  direction,  the  baby  and  I  sat  alone. 

"O — o-o-o-o — "  said  the  baby,  in  a  kind  of  lyric 
understanding  of  the  situation. 

I  held  him  close.  These  hours  of  Arcady  are  hard 
to  win  for  the  sheltering  of  dreams. 

Voices,  sounding  beyond  a  momentary  rain  of 
petals,  roused  me.  Enid's  baby  smiled  up  in  my 
eyes  but  I  saw  no  one,  though  the  voices  murmured 
on  as  if  the  dryads  had  forgotten  me  and  were  idly 


THE  CHRISTENING  223 

speaking  from  tree  to  tree.  Then  I  caught  from  the 
orchard  arbour  Mrs.  Trempleau's  darting  laugh.  It 
was  as  if  some  one  had  kindled  among  the  apple 
blossoms  a  torch  of  perfumed  wood. 

"I  am  sailing  on  Wednesday,"  I  heard  her  saying 
in  a  voice  abruptly  brought  to  sadness.  "Ah,  my 
friend,  if  I  might  believe  you.  Would  there  indeed  be 
happiness  for  you  there  with  me,  counting  the  cost  ?" 

It  was  of  course  Hobart  Eddy  who  answered  quite, 
I  will  be  bound,  as  I  would  have  said  that  Hobart 
Eddy  would  speak  of  love :  with  fine  deliberation,  as 
another  man  would  speak  the  commonplaces,  pos 
sibly  with  his  little  half  bow  over  the  lady's  hand,  a 
very  courtier  of  Love's  plaisance. 

She  replied  with  that  perpetual  little  snare  of  her 
laughter  laid  like  a  spider  web  from  one  situation  to 
the  next. 

"Come  with  me  then,"  she  challenged  him;  "let 
us  find  this  land  where  it  is  always  Spring." 

"Do  you  mean  it  ?"  asked  Hobart  Eddy. 

I  do  not  know  what  she  may  have  said  to  this,  for 
the  new  note  in  his  voice  terrified  me.  Neither  do  I 
know  what  his  next  words  were,  but  their  delibera 
tion  had  vanished  and  in  its  stead  had  come  some 
thing,  a  pulse,  a  tremor.  .  .  . 

I  remember  thinking  that  I  must  do  something, 
that  it  was  impossible  that  I  should  not  do  any 
thing.  I  looked  helplessly  about  the  great  empty 


224    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

orchard  with  its  mock-sentinel  trees,  and  down 
into  Enid's  baby's  eyes.  And  on  a  sudden  I 
caught  him  in  my  arms  and  lifted  him  high 
until  his  head  was  within  the  sweetness  of  the 
lowest  boughs.  He  did  what  any  baby  in  the 
world  would  have  done  in  that  circumstance;  he 
laughed  aloud  with  a  little  coo  and  crow  at 
the  end  so  that  anybody  in  that  part  of  the  or 
chard,  for  example,  must  have  heard  him  with  de 
light. 

The  two  in  the  orchard  arbour  did  hear.  Mrs. 
Trempleau  leaned  from  the  window. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  in  her  pretty  soaring  emphasis, 
"what  a  picture !" 

"Is  he  not  ?"  I  answered,  and  held  the  baby  high. 
On  which  she  said  some  supreme  nonsense  about 
Elizabeth  and  the  little  John  and  "Hobart  —  see!" 
she  cried. 

The  two  came  out  of  the  arbour,  and  Mrs.  Trem 
pleau  made  little  dabs  at  the  baby  and  then  went 
picturesquely  about  filling  her  arms  with  blossoms. 
Hobart  Eddy  threw  himself  on  the  grass  beside  me 
and  watched  her.  I  looked  at  them  all :  at  the  woman 
who  was  like  thin  flame,  at  the  man  who  watched  her, 
indolent,  confident,  plainly  allured,  and  at  Enid's 
baby.  And, 

"There,"  said  I,  abruptly  to  the  baby,  "is  your 
godfather." 


THE  CHRISTENING  225 

Hobart  Eddy  turned  on  his  elbow  and  offered  him 
one  finger. 

"It's  like  being  godfather  to  a  rose,"  he  said 
smiling,  and  his  smile  had  always  the  charm  and 
spontaneity  of  his  first  youth. 

"When  the  rose*  is  twenty-one,"  said  I,  "and  this 
luncheon  party  which  I  heard  you  prophesying  the 
other  day  comes  off,  what  sort  of  godfather  will  you 
be  then,  do  you  think  ?" 

"What  sort  am  I  now,  for  that  matter  ?"  he  asked 
idly. 

"Ah,  well,  then,"  said  I  boldly;  "yes!  What 
sort  are  you  now?" 

When  one  is  past  seventy  and  may  say  what  one 
pleases  one  is  not  accountable  for  any  virtue  of  daring. 

He  looked  at  me  quickly  but  I  did  not  meet  his  eyes. 
I  was  watching  Mrs.  Trempleau  lay  the  apple  boughs 
against  her  gown. 

"Ah,  pray  don't,"  he  besought.  "You  make  me 
feel  as  if  there  were  things  around  in  the  air  waiting 
to  see  if  I  would  do  right  or  wrong  with  them." 

"There  are,"  said  I,  "if  you  want  me  to  be  dis 
agreeable." 

"But  I!"  he  said  lightly.  "What  have  I  to  de 
cide  ?  Whether  to  have  elbow  bits  on  the  leaders 
for  the  coaching  Thursday.  Whether  to  give  Eric 
his  dinner  party  on  the  eighth  or  the  nineteenth. 
Whether  to  risk  the  frou-frou  figure  at  Miss  Lillie- 


226    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

blade's  cotillon.  You  don't  wish  me  to  believe  that 
anything  in  the  air  is  concerned  with  how  I  am 
deciding  those  ?" 

"No,"  said  I  with  energy,  "not  in  the  air  or  on  the 
earth  or  under  the  sea." 

"Ah,  well,  now,"  he  went  on  with  conviction,  and 
gave  to  the  baby  a  finger  of  each  hand  —  beautiful, 
idle,  white  fingers  round  which  the  baby's  curled 
and  clung,  "what  can  I  do  ?"  He  put  it  to  me  with 
an  air  of  great  fairness. 

With  no  warning  I  found  myself  very  near  to  tears 
for  the  pity  of  it.  I  laid  my  cheek  on  the  baby's 
head  and  when  I  spoke  I  am  not  even  sure  that  Hobart 
Eddy  heard  all  I  was  saying. 

".  .  .  'in  the  name  of  this  child,'"  I  repeated, 
"was  there  not  something  'in  the  name  of  this  child' 
—  something  of  renouncing  —  and  of  not  following 
after  nor  being  led  by  .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  up  at  me  blankly,  though 
still  with  all  his  urbanity,  his  conformity,  his  chival 
rous  attention. 

"I'm  not  preaching,"  said  I  briskly,  "but  a  gen 
tleman  keeps  his  word,  and  dies  if  need  be  for  the 
sake  of  his  oath,  does  he  not  ?  Whether  it  chances 
to  be  about  a  bet,  or  a  horse,  or  —  or  a  sea  lion.  For 
my  own  part,  as  a  woman  of  the  world,  I  cannot 
see  why  on  earth  he  should  not  keep  it  about  a 
christening." 


THE   CHRISTENING  227 

Hobart  Eddy  turned  toward  me,  seeking  to  free 
his  fingers  of  that  little  clinging  clasp. 

"Jove,"  he  said  helplessly,  "do  they  mean  it  that 
way?" 

"  'That  way,' "  I  cried,  past  the  limit  of  my  patience. 
"I  dare  say  that  very  many  people  who  are  married 
would  be  amazed  if  they  were  told  that  their  oath 
had  been  meant  'that  way/  But  they  would  sell 
their  very  days  to  pay  a  debt  at  bridge.  'That  way* ! 
Let  me  ask  you,  Hobart  Eddy,  if  'I  will,  by  God's 
help'  does  not  mean  quite  as  much  at  a  marriage  or  a 
christening  as  it  does  in  society  ?" 

And  at  that  Enid's  baby,  missing  the  outstretched 
fingers,  suddenly  leaned  toward  him,  smiling  and 
eager,  uttering  the  most  inane  and  delicious  little 
cries.  A  baby  without  genius  would  simply  have 
paid  no  attention. 

Hobart  Eddy  took  the  baby  in  his  arms  and  looked 
down  at  him  with  something  in  his  face  which  I 
had  never  seen  there  before.  The  baby  caught  at 
his  hand  and  pulled  at  the  cord  of  his  monocle  and 
stared  up  at  the  low  blossoming  boughs.  As  for  me 
I  fell  gathering  up  stray  petals  in  a  ridiculous  fashion 
and  I  knew  that  my  hands  were  trembling  absurdly. 

I  looked  up  as  Mrs.  Trempleau  came  toward  us. 
She  was  dragging  a  burden  of  flowering  branches 
and  she  looked  some  priestess  of  the  sun  gone  momen 
tarily  about  the  offices  of  the  blossoming  earth. 


228          LOVES  OF    PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"Ah,  the  baby!"  she  cried.  "Let  me  have  the 
baby/' 

Hobart  Eddy  had  risen  and  had  helped  me  to  rise; 
and  I  fancy  that  he  and  Enid's  baby  and  I  hardly 
heard  Mrs.  Trempleau's  pretty  urgency.  But  when 
she  let  fall  the  flowers  and  held  out  her  arms, 
Hobart  looked  at  her  and  did  not  let  the  baby  go. 

"This  little  old  man  and  I,"  he  said,  "we  under 
stand  each  other.  And  we're  going  to  walk  together, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

On  Wednesday  Mrs.  Trempleau  sailed  for  Cher 
bourg  alone.  But  when  I  told  Pelleas  the  whole 
matter  he  shook  his  head. 

"If  those  two  had  intended  eloping,"  he  said,  "all 
the  christenings  in  Christendom  wouldn't  have  pre 
vented." 

"Pelleas!"  I  said,  "I  am  certain—" 

"If  those  two  had  intended  to  elope,"  he  patiently 
began  it  all  over  again,  "all  the — " 

"Pelleas,"  I  urged,  "I  don't  believe  it!" 

"If  those  two  — "I  heard  him  trying  to  say. 

"Pelleas!"  I  cried  finally,  "you  don't  believe  it 
either!" 

"Ah,  well,  no,", he  admitted,  "I  don't  know  that 
I  do." 


XII 

AN   INTERLUDE 

WE  saw  Mrs.  Trempleau  once  afterward  —  it  was 
the  following  Autumn  in  the  Berkshires  —  and  of 
that  time  I  must  turn  aside  to  tell.  But  the  story  is  of 
Mrs.  Trempleau's  little  girl,  Margaret. 

Pelleas  and  I  had  gradually  come  to  admit  that 
Margaret  knew  many  things  of  which  we  had  no 
knowledge.  This  statement  may  very  well  be 
received  either  as  proof  of  our  madness  or  as  one 
of  the  pastimes  of  our  age;  but  we  are  reconciled 
to  having  both  our  pastimes  and  our  fancies  disre 
garded.  We  were  certain  that  there  are  extensions 
of  the  experiences  of  every  day  which  we  missed  and 
little  Margaret  understood. 

This  occurred  to  us  the  first  time  that  we  saw  her. 
We  were  sitting  on  the  veranda  of  a  boarding  house 
where  we  were  come  with  Miss  Willie  Lillieblade  to 
be  her  guests  for  a  week.  The  boarding  house  was 
kept  by  a  Quakeress,  as  famous  for  her  asters  as  for 
her  pasties.  Mrs.  Trempleau,  who  was  there  when 
we  arrived  ("She  is  like  a  flash  of  something,  would 
thee  not  say  ?"  observed  the  gentle  Quakeress,  "and 

229 


230    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

she  calls  the  child  only,  thee  will  have  marked,  '  Run 
away  now,  Dearness.'")  —  Mrs.  Trempleau  had  just 
driven  away  in  a  high  trap  with  orange  wheels  and  a 
slim  blond  youth  attached,  when  Margaret  came  up 
to  the  veranda  from  the  garden. 

"Smell,"  she  said  to  me. 

As  I  stooped  over  the  wax-white  scentless  blossoms 
in  the  child's  hand,  I  thought  of  that  chorus  of  the 
flower  girls  in  one  of  the  Italian  dramas:  "Smell! 
Smell!  Smell!" 

"What  are  they,  dear?"  I  asked,  taking  care 
not  to  shake  her  confidence  by  looking  at  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said;  "but  O,  smell!" 

But  though  I  held  the  flowers  to  my  face  I,  who  can 
even  detect  the  nameless  fragrance  of  old  lace,  could 
divine  in  them  no  slightest  perfume.  I  held  them 
toward  Pelleas,  dozing  in  a  deep  chair,  and  when 
he  had  lifted  them  to  his  face  he  too  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  strange,"  he  said;  "I  would  say  that  they 
have  no  odour." 

"They've  such  a  beautiful  smell,"  said  the  child, 
sighing,  and  took  back  her  flowers  with  that  which 
immediately  struck  Pelleas  and  me  as  a  kind  of  pa 
thetic  resignation.  It  was  as  if  she  were  wonted  to 
having  others  fail  to  share  her  discoveries  and  as  if 
she  had  approached  us  with  the  shy  hope  that  we 
might  understand.  But  we  had  failed  her ! 

"Won't  you  sit  down  here  with  us  ?"  said  I,  dimly 


AN  INTERLUDE  231 

conscious  of  this  and  wistful  to  make  amends.  It  is 
a  very  commonplace  tragedy  to  fail  to  meet  other 
minds  —  their  fancies,  their  humour,  their  specula 
tion  —  but  I  am  loath  to  add  to  tragedy  and  I  always 
do  my  best  to  understand. 

We  tried  her  attention  that  day  with  all  that  we 
knew  of  fairy  stories  and  vague  lore.  She  listened 
with  the  closest  regard  to  what  we  offered  but  she 
was  neither  impressed  nor,  one  would  have  said, 
greatly  diverted  by  our  most  ingenious  inventions. 
Yet  she  was  by  no  means  without  response  —  we 
were  manifestly  speaking  her  language,  but  a  lan 
guage  about  which  Pelleas  and  I  had  a  curious  im 
pression  that  she  knew  more  than  we  knew.  It 
was  as  if  she  were  listening  to  things  which  she 
already  understood  in  the  hope  that  we  might  let 
fall  something  novel  about  them.  This  we  felt 
that  we  signally  failed  to  do.  Yet  there  was  after  all 
a  certain  rapport  and  the  child  evidently  felt  at  ease 
with  us. 

"Come  and  see  us  to-morrow  morning,"  we  begged 
when  she  left  us.  For  having  early  ascertained  that 
there  was  not  a  single  pair  of  lovers  in  the  house, 
possible  or  estranged,  we  cast  about  for  other  magic. 
In  the  matter  of  lack  o'  love  in  that  boarding  house 
we  felt  as  did  poor  Pepys  when  he  saw  not  a  hand 
some  face  in  the  Sabbath  congregation:  "It  seems," 
he  complained,  "as  if  a  curse  were  fallen  upon  the 


232    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

parish."  Verily,  a  country  house  without  ever 
one  pair  of  lovers  is  an  anomaly  ill  to  be  supported. 
But  this  child  was  a  gracious  little  substitute  and 
we  waited  eagerly  to  see  if  she  would  return  to  us. 

Not  only  did  she  return  but  she  brought  us  food 
for  many  a  day's  wonder.  Next  morning  she  came 
round  the  house  in  the  sunshine  and  she  was  looking 
down  as  if  she  were  leading  some  one  by  the  hand. 
She  lifted  her  eyes  to  us  from  the  bottom  step. 

"I've  brought  my  little  sister  to  see  you,"  she  said. 

Then  she  came  up  the  steps  slowly  as  if  she  were 
helping  uncertain  feet  to  mount. 

"Halverson  can't  get  up  so  very  fast,"  she  ex 
plained,  and  seated  herself  on  the  top  step  holding 
one  little  arm  as  if  it  were  circling  some  one. 

Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other  in  almost  shy 
consternation.  We  are  ourselves  ready  with  the 
maddest  fancies  and  we  readily  accept  the  imagin 
ings  of  others  —  and  even,  if  we  are  sufficiently 
fond  of  them,  their  facts.  But  we  are  not  accustomed 
to  being  distanced  on  our  own  ground. 

"Your  —  little  sister?"  said  I,  as  naturally  as  I 
was  able. 

"Yes,"  she  assented  with  simplicity,  "Halverson. 
She  goes  with  me  nearly  all  over.  But  she  don't  like 
to  come  to  see  peoples,  very  well." 

At  this  I  was  seized  with  a  kind  of  breathlessness 
and  trembling.  It  is  always  wonderful  to  be  received 


AN  INTERLUDE  233 

into  the  secrets  of  a  child's  play;  but  here,  we 
instinctively  felt,  was  something  which  Margaret 
did  not  regard  as  play. 

"How  old  is  she  ?"  Pelleas  asked.  (Ah,  I  thought, 
even  in  my  excitement  and  interest,  suppose  I  had 
been  married  to  a  man  who  would  have  felt  it  neces- 
say  to  say,  "But,  my  dear  little  girl,  there  is  no  one 
there!") 

"She  is  just  as  old  as  I  am,"  explained  Margaret; 
"we  was  borned  together.  Sometimes  I've  thought," 
she  added  shyly,  "wouldn't  it  'a'  been  funny  if  I'd 
been  made  the  one  you  couldn't  see  and  Halverson'd 
been  me  ?" 

Yes,  we  agreed,  rinding  a  certain  relief  in  the  smile 
that  she  expected ;  that  would  have  been  funny. 

"Then,"  she  continued,  "it  'd  'a'  been  Halverson 
that  'd  had  to  be  dressed  up  and  have  her  face  washed 
an'  a  cool  bath,  'stead  o'  me.  I  often  risk  it  could 
be  the  other  way  round." 

She  looked  pensively  down  and  her  slim  little 
hand  might  have  been  straying  over  somebody's 
curls. 

"They  isn't  no  'ticular  use  in  bein'  saw,"  she 
observed,  "an'  Halverson's  got  everything  else  but 
just  that." 

"But  can  —  can  she  talk  ?"  Pelleas  asked  gravely. 

"She  can,  to  me,"  the  child  answered  readily,  "but 
I  do  just  as  well  as  more  would.  I  can  tell  what  she 


234     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

says.  An'  I  always  understand  her.  She  couldn't  be 
sure  other  folks  would  hear  her  —  right." 

Then  the  most  unfortunate  thing  that  could  have 
happened  promptly  came  about.  Humming  a  little 
snatch  of  song  and  drawing  on  her  gloves  Mrs. 
Trempleau  idled  down  the  long  piazza.  She  greeted 
us,  shook  out  her  lace  parasol,  and  saw  Margaret. 

"My  darling!"  she  cried;  "go  in  at  once  to  your 
practicing.  And  don't  come  out  again  please  until 
you've  found  a  fresh  hair  ribbon." 

The  child  rose  without  a  word.  Pelleas  and  I 
looked  to  see  her  run  down  the  steps,  readily  forgetful 
of  her  pretence  about  the  little  sister.  Instead,  she 
went  down  as  she  had  mounted,  with  an  unmis 
takable  tender  care  of  little  feet  that  might  stumble. 

"Run  on,  Dearness !  Don't  be  so  stupid!"  cried 
Mrs.  Trempleau  fretfully;  but  the  child  proceeded 
serenely  on  her  way  and  disappeared  down  the  aster 
path,  walking  as  if  she  led  some  one  whom  we  did 
not  see. 

"She  is  at  that  absurd  play  again,"  said  the 
woman  impatiently;  "really,  I  didn't  know  she  ever 
bored  strangers  with  it." 

"Does  she  often  play  so,  madame?"  Pelleas 
asked,  following  her  for  a  few  steps  on  the  veranda. 

Mrs.  Trempleau  shrugged. 

"All  the  time,"  she  said,  "O,  quite  ever  since  she 
could  talk,  she  has  insisted  on  this  *  sister.'  Heaven 


AN   INTERLUDE  235 

knows  where  she  ever  got  the  name.  7  never  heard 
it.  She  is  very  tiresome  with  it  —  she  never  forgets 
her.  She  saves  food  for  Halverson ;  she  won't  go  to 
drive  unless  there  is  room  for  Halverson;  she  wakes 
us  in  the  night  to  get  Halverson  a  drink.  Of  course 
I've  been  to  specialists.  They  say  she  is  fanciful 
and  that  she'll  outgrow  it.  But  I  don't  know  —  she 
seems  to  get  worse.  I  used  to  lock  her  up,  but  that 
did  no  good.  She  insisted  that  I  couldn't  lock  Hal 
verson  out  —  the  idea  !  She  has  stopped  talking  the 
nonsense  to  me,  but  I  can  see  she's  never  stopped 
pretending.  When  I  have  my  nervous  headaches  I 
declare  the  dear  child  gives  me  cold  chills." 

When  she  was  gone  Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each 
other  in  silence.  Between  the  vulgar  skepticism  of 
the  mother  and  the  madness  of  believing  that  Mar 
garet  saw  what  we  did  not  see,  we  hesitated  not  a 
moment  to  ally  ourselves  with  the  little  girl.  After 
all,  who  are  we  that  we  should  be  prepared  to  doubt 
the  authority  of  the  fancies  of  a  child  ? 

"They've  been  to  specialists!"  said  Pelleas,  shak 
ing  his  head. 

The  night  was  very  still,  moonless,  and  having  that 
lack  of  motion  among  the  leaves  which  gives  to  a 
garden  the  look  of  mid-Summer.  Pelleas  and  I 
stepped  through  the  long  glass  doors  of  our  sitting 
room,  crossed  the  veranda  and  descended  to  the  path. 


236    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

There  we  were  wont  to  walk  for  an  hour,  looking 
toward  the  fields  where  the  farm-house  candles 
spelled  out  the  meaning  of  the  dark  as  do  children 
instead  of  giving  it  forth  in  one  loud,  electric  word 
as  adults  talk.  That  night  we  were  later  than 
on  other  nights  and  the  fields  were  still  and  black. 

"Etarre,"  Pelleas  said,  "of  course  I  want  to  live 
as  long  as  I  can.  But  more  and  more  I  am  wildly 
eager  to  understand." 

"I  know,"  I  said. 

" '  I  want  to  see  my  universe,5 "  he  quoted.  "  Some 
time,"  he  went  on,  "one  of  us  will  know,  perhaps, 
and  not  be  able  to  tell  the  other.  One  of  us  may 
know  first.  Isn't  it  marvelous  that  people  can  talk 
about  anything  else?  Although,"  he  added,  "I'm 
heartily  glad  that  they  can.  It  is  bad  enough  to  hear 
many  of  us  on  the  subject  of  beer  and  skittles  with 
out  being  obliged  to  listen  to  what  we  have  to  say 
on  the  universe." 

I  remember  a  certain  judge  who  was  delightful 
when  he  talked  about  machinery  and  poultry  and 
Chippendale;  but  the  moment  that  he  approached 
law  and  order  and  the  cosmic  forces  every  one  hoped 
for  dessert  or  leave-taking.  Truly,  there  are  worthy 
people  who  would  better  talk  of  "love,  taste  and  the 
musical  glasses"  and  leave  the  universe  alone.  But 
for  us  whose  bread  is  wonder  it  is  marvelous  indeed 
that  we  can  talk  of  anything  else.  Nor  do  Pelleas 


AN  INTERLUDE  237 

and  I  often  attempt  any  other  subject,  "in  such  a 
night." 

"But  I  hold  to  my  notion,"  Pelleas  said,  "that  we 
might  know  a  great  many  extraordinary  things  before 
we  die,  if  only  we  would  do  our  best." 

"At  all  events,"  said  I,  "we  have  at  least  got  to  be 
willing  to  believe  them,  whether  they  ever  come  our 
way  or  not.  For  I  dare  say  that  when  we  die  we 
shall  be  shown  only  as  many  marvels  as  we  are  pre 
pared  for." 

"For  example,  Nichola — "  suggested  Pelleas. 

At  her  name  we  both  smiled.  Nichola  would  not 
believe  in  darkness  itself  if  it  did  not  cause  her  to 
stumble.  And  she  would  as  soon  harbour  an  un 
derstanding  of,  say,  the  way  of  the  moon  with  the 
tides  as  she  would  be  credulous  of  witchcraft.  Any 
comprehension  of  the  results  of  psychical  research 
would  necessitate  in  Nichola  some  such  extension  of 
thought  as  death  will  mean  to  Pelleas  and  me.  The 
only  mystery  for  which  she  has  not  an  instant  ex 
planation  is  death ;  and  even  of  that  she  once  said : 
"There  ain't  much  of  anything  mysterious  about  it, 
as  I  see.  It's  plain  enough  that  we  hev  to  be  born. 
An'  that  we  can't  be  kep'  goin'.  So  we  die." 

No,  Nichola  would  not  be  prepared  for  the  marvels 
of  afterward.  The  universe  is  not  "her"  universe. 
But  as  for  Pelleas  and  me  no  phenomenon  could  put 
us  greatly  out  of  countenance  or  leave  us  wholly  in- 


238    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

credulous.  Therefore  as  we  stepped  across  the  lawn 
in  the  darkness  we  were  not  too  much  amazed  to 
hear  very  near  us  a  little  voice,  like  the  voice  of  some 
of  the  little  night  folk;  and  obviously  in  talk  with 
itself. 

"  No,  no,"  we  heard  it  saying,  "  I  don't  fink  it  would 
be  right.  No  —  it  wouldn't  be  the  way  folks  ought 
to  do.  S'posin'  everybody  went  and  did  so  ?  With 
theirs?" 

It  was  Margaret.  We  knew  her  voice  and  at  the 
turn  of  the  path  we  paused,  fearing  to  frighten  her. 
But  she  had  heard  our  talking  and  she  ran  toward 
us.  In  the  dimness  I  saw  that  she  wore  her  little 
pink  bedrobe  over  her  nightgown  and  her  hair  was 
in  its  bedtime  braids. 

"Margaret  —  dear!"  I  said,  for  it  was  late  and  it 
must  have  been  hours  since  she  had  been  left  to 
sleep,  "are  you  alone?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  "Halverson  is  here." 

She  caught  my  fingers  and  her  little  hand  was  hot. 

"Halverson  wants  me  to  change  places  with  her," 
she  said. 

We  found  a  bench  and  I  held  the  child  in  my  arms. 
She  was  in  no  excitement  but  she  seemed  troubled; 
and  she  drew  her  breath  deeply,  in  that  strange, 
treble  sigh  which  I  have  known  from  no  other  who 
has  not  borne  great  sorrow.  Have  I  said  how  beau 
tiful  she  was  ?  And  there  was  about  her  nothing 


AN  INTERLUDE  239 

sprite-like,  no  elfin  graces,  no  graces  of  a  kind  of 
angelic  childhood  such  as  make  one  fear  for  its 
flowering.  She  had  merely  the  beauty  of  the  child 
eternal,  the  beauty  of  normal  little  humankind. 
That  may  have  been  partly  why  her  tranquil  talk 
carried  with  it  all  the  conviction  which  for  some 
the  commonplace  will  have. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  ?"  she  asked  us  seriously. 

"But  see,  dear  one,  how  could  that  be?"  I  said 
soothingly.  "What  would  you  do  —  you  and  Hal- 
verson  —  if  you  were  indeed  to  change  places  ?" 

"I  s'pose,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "that  I  should 
have  to  die  an'  then  Halverson  would  come  an'  be 
me.  An'  maybe  I  might  get  lost  —  on  the  way  to 
being  Halverson.  But  she  begs  me  to  change," 
cried  the  child ;  "  she  —  she  says  I'm  not  happy.  She 
—  she  says  if  I  was  her  I'd  be  happy." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  I,  "but  you  are  happy,  are  you 
not?" 

"Not  very,"  she  answered,  "not  since  papa  went. 
He  knew  'bout  Halverson,  an'  he  didn't  scold.  An' 
he  never  laughed  'bout  her.  Since  he  went  I  haven't 
had  anybody  to  talk  to  —  'bout  Them." 

"About  — whom  ?"  I  asked,  and  I  felt  for  Pelleas' 
hand  in  the  darkness. 

Margaret  shook  her  head,  buried  against  my  arm. 

"I  can't  say  Them,"  she  confessed,  "because  no 
body  has  ever  told  me  about  them,  an'  I  don't  know 


240  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

how  to  ask.  I  can't  say  Them.  I  can  only  see 
Them.  I  fink  my  papa  could  —  too." 

"Now  ?"  I  asked,  "can  you  see  — now,  Margaret  ?" 

"I  can  —  when  I  want  to/'  she  answered,  "I — 
move  something  in  the  back  of  my  head.  An'  then 
I  see  colours  that  aren't  there  —  before  that.  An' 
then  I  hear  what  they  say  —  sometimes,"  said  the 
child ;  "  they  make  me  laugh  so  !  But  I  can't  'member 
what  it  was  for.  An'  I  can  hear  music  sometimes  — 
an'  when  flowers  don't  smell  at  all  I  —  do  that  way 
to  the  back  of  my  head  an'  then  the  flowers  are  all 
Turnery.  I  always  try  if  other  people  can  do  that 
to  flowers.  You  couldn't,  you  know." 

"No,"  I  said,  "we  couldn't." 

"No,"  said  the  child,  with  her  little  sigh  of  resig 
nation,  "nobody  can.  But  I  fink  my  papa  could. 
Well,  an'  it's  Them  that  Halverson  is  with.  She  —  I 
think  she  is  'em.  An'  she  says  for  me  to  come  an* 
be  'em,  too  —  an'  she'll  hev  to  be  me  then;  'cause 
it  isn't  time  yet.  An'  she'll  do  the  practicin'  an'  come 
in  for  tea  when  mamma's  company's  there.  She 
says  she's  sorry  for  me  an'  she  don't  mind  bein'  saw 
for  a  while.  Would  you  go  ?" 

"  But  how  would  you  do  it,  dear  —  how  could  you 
do  it  ?"  I  asked,  thinking  that  the  practicality  would 
bring  her  to  the  actualities. 

"O,"  said  Margaret,  simply,  "I  fink  I  would  just 
have  to  move  that  in  the  back  of  my  head  long  enough. 


AN  INTERLUDE  241 

Sometimes  I  'most  have  —  but  I  was  'fraid  an*  I 
came  back.  Something  .  .  /'said  the  child,  "some 
thing  slips  past  each  other  in  the  back  of  my  head 
when  I  want  to.  .  .  ." 

She  threw  her  head  against  my  breast  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

"  Pelleas  ! J)  I  cried,  "  O,  Pelleas  —  take  her !  Let 
us  get  her  in  the  house  —  quick" 

She  opened  her  eyes  as  his  arms  folded  about  her 
to  lift  her. 

"Don't  go  so  very  fast,"  she  besought  sleepily; 
"Halverson  can't  go  so  very  fast." 

My  summons  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Trempleau's 
apartment  brought  no  reply.  Finally  I  turned  the 
knob  and  we  entered.  The  outer  room  was  in  dark 
ness,  but  beyond  a  light  was  burning  and  there  was 
Margaret's  bed,  its  pillow  already  pressed  as  if  the 
little  head  had  been  there  earlier  in  the  evening. 
Pelleas  laid  her  down  tenderly  and  she  did  not  open 
her  eyes  as  I  rearranged  the  covers.  But  when  we 
would  have  moved  a  little  away  she  spoke  in  her  clear, 
childish  treble. 

"Please  don't  go,"  she  said,  "till  Halverson  gets 
asleep.  If  she'll  only  go  to  sleep  I'm  not  'fraid." 

On  this  we  sat  by  the  bed  and  she  threw  one  arm 
across  the  vacant  pillow. 

"Halverson  sleeps  there,"  she  said,  "but  some 
times  she  keeps  me  'wake  with  her  dreams." 


242  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

It  may  have  been  half  an  hour  later  when  Pelleas 
and  I  nodded  to  each  other  that,  her  restlessness 
having  ceased,  she  would  now  be  safely  asleep.  In 
almost  the  same  moment  we  heard  the  outer  door  open 
and  some  one  enter  the  room,  with  a  touch  of  soft 
skirts.  We  rose  and  faced  Mrs.  Trempleau,  stand 
ing  in  the  doorway.  She  was  splendid  in  a  glitter 
ing  gown,  her  white  cloak  slipping  from  her  shoulders 
and  a  bright  scarf  wound  about  her  loosened  hair. 

We  told  her  hurriedly  what  had  brought  us  to  the 
room,  apologizing  for  our  presence,  as  well  we  might. 
She  listened  with  straying  eyes,  nodded,  cast  her 
cloak  on  a  sofa  and  tried,  frowning,  to  take  the 
scarf  from  her  hair. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said  in  her  high,  irritable  voice; 
"thanks,  very  much.  I'm  sorry  —  the  child  —  has 
made  a  nuisance  of  herself.  She  promised  me  she'd 
go  to  sleep.  I  went  up  to  the  ball  —  at  the  hotel. 
She  promised  me  — " 

Her  words  trailed  vaguely  off,  and  she  glanced  up 
at  us  furtively.  And  I  saw  then  how  flushed  her 
cheeks  were  and  how  bright  her  eyes  — 

"Margaret  promised  me  she'd  go  to  sleep,"  she 
insisted,  throwing  the  scarf  on  the  floor. 

And  the  child  heard  her  name  and  woke.  She 
sat  up,  looking  at  her  mother,  round-eyed.  And  at 
her  look  Mrs.  Trempleau  laughed,  fumbling  at  her 
gloves  and  nodding  at  Margaret. 


AN  INTERLUDE  143 

"Dearness,"  she  said,  "we're  going  away  from 
here.  You'll  have  a  new  father  presently  who  will 
take  us  away  from  here.  Don't  you  look  at  mother 
like  that  —  it's  all  right — " 

Over  the  face  of  the  child  as  Pelleas  and  I  stood 
helplessly  looking  down  at  her  came  a  strangeness. 
We  thought  that  she  was  hardly  conscious  of  our 
presence.  Her  eyes  seemed  rather  to  deepen  than 
to  widen  as  she  looked  at  her  mother,  and  the  woman, 
startled  and  unstrung,  threw  out  her  hands  and 
laughed  weakly  and  without  meaning. 

"Mamma!"  the  child  cried,  "mamma!"  and  did 
not  take  her  eyes  from  her  face,  "O,  mamma,  you 
look  as  if  you  had  been  dead  forever  —  are  you  dead  ? 
You  are  dead!"  cried  Margaret.  "O,  They  won't 
touch  you.  They  are  running  away  from  you. 
You're  dead  —  dead,"  sobbed  the  child  and  threw 
herself  back  on  her  pillow.  "O,  papa  —  my  papa  !" 

She  stretched  her  little  arm  across  the  vacant 
pillow  beside  her. 

"Halverson,  I  will  —  I  will,"  we  heard  her  say. 

As  soon  as  we  could  we  got  the  little  Quakeress, 
for  Mrs.  Trempleau  fainted  and  we  were  in  a  passion 
of  anxiety  for  the  child.  She  lay  without  moving, 
and  when  the  village  physician  came  he  could  tell  us 
nothing.  We  slipped  away  to  our  rooms  as  the  East 
was  whitening  and  I  found  myself  sobbing  helplessly. 

"She  will  die,"  I  said;  "she  knows  how  to  do  it  — 


244          LOVES   OF    PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Pelleas,  she  knows  what  we  don't  know  —  whatever 
it  is  we  can't  know  till  we  die." 

"Etarre!"  Pelleas  besought  me,  "I  do  believe  she 
has  made  you  as  fantastic  as  she."  But  his  voice 
trembled  and  his  hands  trembled.  And  it  was  as 
if  we  had  stood  in  places  where  other  feet  do  not  go. 

But  Margaret  did  not  die.  She  was  ill  for  a  long 
time  —  at  the  last  languidly,  even  comfortably  ill, 
able  to  sit  up,  to  be  amused.  Mrs.  Trempleau  was 
to  be  married  in  town,  and  on  the  day  before  the  cere 
mony  Pelleas  and  I  went  in,  as  we  often  did,  to  sit 
with  Margaret.  She  was  lying  on  a  sofa  and  in  her 
hands  were  some  white,  double  lilies  at  which  she 
was  looking  half-frowning. 

"These  don't  smell  any,"  she  said  to  us  almost  at 
once;  "I  thought  they  would.  It  seems  to  me  they 
used  to  smell  but  I  can't  —  find  it  now." 

She  sat  happily  arranging  and  rearranging  the  blos 
soms  until  some  one  who  did  not  know  of  our  pres 
ence  came  through  an  adjoining  room,  and  called 
her. 

"  Margaret !     Margaret ! " 

She  did  not  move  nor  did  she  seem  to  hear. 

"They  are  calling  you,  dear,"  Pelleas  said. 

She  looked  up  at  us  quickly. 

"What  did  they  call  me  before  —  do  you  remem 
ber  ? "  she  said  to  us.  "  It  wasn't  that." 


AN   INTERLUDE  245 

Of  the  danger  to  the  child  I,  in  my  sudden  wild 
wonder  and  curiosity,  took  no  thought.  I  leaned 
toward  her. 

"WasitHalverson?"Iasked. 

Her  face  brightened. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "  somebody  used  to  call  me  that. 
Why  don't  they  call  me  that  now  ?  What  did  you 
say  the  word  is  ?" 


XIII 

THE    RETURN    OF    ENDYMION 

PELLEAS  and  I  went  through  the  wicket  gate  with 
a  joyful  sense  of  being  invaders.  The  gate  clicked 
behind  us,  and  we  heard  the  wheels  of  our  cab 
rolling  irretrievably  from  us,  and  where  we  stood 
the  June  dusk  was  deep.  We  had  let  ourselves  in  by 
a  little  wicket  gate  in  the  corner  of  the  stone  wall  that 
ran  round  Little  Rosemont,  the  Long  Island  country 
place  where  our  dear  Avis  and  Lawrence  Knight  lived. 
We  had  come  down  for  a  week  with  them  and, 
having  got  a  later  train  than  we  had  thought,  we 
found  at  the  station  for  Little  Rosemont  no  one  to 
meet  us.  So  there  we  were,  entering  by  that  woods' 
gate  and  meaning  to  walk  into  the  house  as  if  we 
belonged  there.  Indeed,  secretly  we  were  glad  that 
this  had  so  befallen  for  we  dislike  arriving  no  less 
than  we  dislike  saying  good-bye.  To  my  mind 
neither  a  book  nor  a  visit,  unless  it  be  in  uniform, 
should  be  begun  or  ended  with  a  ruffle  of  drums. 

Meanwhile  we  would  have  our  walk  to  the  house, 
a  half-mile  of  delight.  Before  us  in  the  pines  was  a 
tiny  path  doubtless  intended,  I  told  Pelleas,  to  be 

246 


THE   RETURN   OF   ENDYMION  247 

used  by  violets  when  they  venture  out  to  walk,  two 
by  two,  in  the  safe  night.  It  was  wide  enough  to 
accommodate  no  more  than  two  violets,  and  Pelleas 
and  I  walked  singly,  he  before  and  I  clinging  to  his 
hand.  The  evergreens  brushed  our  faces,  we  heard 
a  stir  of  wings,  and  caught  some  exquisite  odour  not 
intended  for  human  folk  to  breathe.  It  was  a  half- 
hour  to  which  we  were  sadly  unwonted ;  for  Pelleas 
and  I  are  nominally  denied  all  sweet  adventures 
of  not-yet-seventy,  and  such  as  we  win  we  are  wont 
to  thieve  out-of-hand ;  like  this  night  walk,  on  which 
no  one  could  tell  what  might  happen. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  "it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that 
we  are  merely  on  our  way  to  a  country  house 
for  a  visit.  Don't  you  think  that  this  kind  of 
path  through  the  woods  always  leads  to  something 
wonderful  ?" 

"I  have  never  known  it  to  fail,"  Pelleas  said 
promptly.  For  Pelleas  is  not  one  of  the  folk  who 
when  they  travel  grow  just  tired  enough  to  take  a  kind 
of  suave  exception  to  everything  one  says.  Nor  does 
Pelleas  agree  to  distraction.  He  agrees  to  all  fancies 
and  very  moderately  corrects  all  facts,  surely  an 
attribute  of  the  Immortals. 

Then  the  path-for-violets  took  a  turn,  "a  turn  and 
we  stood  in  the  heart  of  things."  And  we  saw  that 
we  had  not  been  mistaken.  The  path  had  not  been 
intended  for  day-folk  at  all;  we  had  taken  it  unaware 


248    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

and  it  had  led  us  as  was  its  fairy  nature  to  something 
wonderful. 

From  where  we  stood  the  ground  sloped  gently 
downward,  a  tentative  hill,  not  willing  to  declare 
itself,  and  spending  its  time  on  a  spangle  of  flowers. 
We  could  see  the  flowers,  for  the  high  moon  broke 
from  clouds.  And  in  the  hollow  stood  a  little  build 
ing  like  a  temple,  with  a  lighted  portico  girt  by  white 
columns  and,  within,  a  depth  of  green  and  white.  We 
looked,  breathless,  perfectly  believing  everything 
that  we  saw,  since  to  doubt  might  be  to  lose  it.  In 
deed,  in  that  moment  the  only  thing  that  I  could  not 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  fall  in  with  was  the  assumption 
that  we  were  in  the  New  World  at  all.  Surely,  here 
was  the  old  order,  the  golden  age,  with  a  temple  in  a 
glade  and  a  satyr  at  your  elbow.  Could  this  be  Little 
Rosemont,  where  we  were  to  find  Avis  and  Lawrence 
and  Hobart  Eddy  and  other  happy  realities  of  our 
uneventful  lives  ? 

"Oh,  Pelleas,"  I  said  in  awe,  "if  only  we  can  get 
inside  before  it  disappears." 

"Maybe,"  murmured  Pelleas,  "if  we  can  do  that 
we  can  disappear  with  it." 

For  we  have  long  had  a  dream  —  we  are  too  fre 
quently  besieged  by  the  ways  of  the  world  to  call  it 
a  hope  —  that  sometime  They  will  come  and  take 
us,  the  Wind  or  the  Day  or  any  of  the  things  that  we 
love,  and  thus  save  us  this  dreary  business  of  dying. 


THE   RETURN  OF   ENDYMION  249 

We  skirted  the  edge  of  the  wood,  looking  down  the 
while  at  that  place  of  light.  Within,  figures  were 
moving,  there  was  the  faint  music  of  strings,  and 
now  and  then  we  heard  laughter.  To  complete  our 
mystification,  as  we  were  well  in  line  with  the  white 
portals  there  issued  from  the  depth  of  green  and 
white  a  group  of  women,  fair  women  in  white  gowns 
and  with  unbound  hair  —  and  they  stepped  to  the 
grass-plot  before  the  door  and  moved  at  the  direction 
of  one  who  leaned,  watching,  in  the  white  portico. 
At  that  we  hesitated  no  longer  but  advanced  boldly 
across  the  moonlit  green.  And  when  I  saw  that  the 
figure  in  the  portico  wore  a  frock  of  pink  and  when  I 
saw  her  lift  her  hand  in  a  way  sweetly  familiar,  I 
began  to  suspect  that  the  time  was  not  yet  come  when 
Pelleas  and  I  were  to  vanish  in  such  bright  wise. 
Manifestly  Pelleas  had  come  to  the  same  conclusion, 
for  when  he  reached  a  broad,  flat  rock  beneath  a 
birch  he  beckoned  me  to  sit  there  in  the  shadow  where 
we  could  watch  these  strange  offices. 

But  the  broad,  flat  rock  proved  already  to  be  oc 
cupied.  As  we  paused  beside  it  there  sprang  to  his 
feet  a  boy  who  at  first  glance  I  protest  to  have 
looked  quite  like  a  god,  he  was  so  tall  and  fair 
under  the  moon.  But  in  spite  of  that  he  instantly 
caught  at  his  cap  and  shuffled  his  feet  in  a  fashion 
which  no  god  would  employ. 

"Oh,"  said  he  in  a  voice  that  I  liked,  for  all  his 


250          LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 
awkward  shyness,  "I  was  just  sittin'  here,  watchin' 


'em." 


Pelleas  looked  at  him  closely. 

"Are  you  sure,"  demanded  Pelleas,  "that  you  are 
not  a  shepherd  who  has  conjured  up  all  this,  on 
his  pipe  ?" 

He  nodded  toward  the  hollow  and  the  young  god 
smiled,  looking  dreadfully  embarrassed  as  a  god 
would  look,  charged  with  being  a  shepherd  of  dreams. 
He  had  some  green  thing  in  his  hand  which  as  he 
stood  bashfully  drawing  it  through  his  fingers  gave 
out  a  faint,  delicious  odour. 

"Is  that  mandrake  ?"  asked  Pelleas  with  pleasure. 

And  to  our  utter  amazement  the  god  answered :  — 

"Yes,  sir.  Squeeze  it  on  your  eyes  and  you  can 
see  things  a  good  ways  off,  they  say." 

Shepherd  or  god,  I  liked  him  after  that.  I  took 
a  bit  of  the  mandrake  from  him  and  asked  him 
whether  he  had  ever  tried  it  and  what  he  had  seen; 
but  at  this  he  blushed  so  furiously  that  as  we  moved 
away  Pelleas  hastened  to  set  him  at  his  ease  by  some 
crisp  commonplace  about  the  night.  And  there  we 
left  him,  standing  under  the  birch  with  his  mandrake 
in  his  hand,  looking  down,  I  instantly  guessed,  for 
some  one  in  that  brightness  below  us  in  the  hollow. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  "Pelleas,  without  any  doubt 
there  is  somebody  down  there  whom  he  wants  to  see. 
I  dare  say  the  temple  may  not  be  enchanted,  after  all. 


THE   RETURN  OF   ENDYMION  251 

For  that  fine  young  fellow  and  his  blushes  —  they 
seemed  to  me  very  human  !" 

"That's  the  reason,"  Pelleas  said  most  wisely, 
"why  there  is  likely  to  be  some  enchantment  about. 
The  more  human  you  are  the  more  wonderful  things 
are  likely  to  happen." 

That  is  true  enough,  and  it  was  in  very  human 
fashion  that  next  instant  the  figure  in  pink  in  the 
portico  of  the  temple  came  swiftly  toward  us  and 
took  me  in  her  arms.  It  was  Avis,  all  tender  regret 
for  what  she  fancied  to  be  her  inhospitality  and  as 
perfectly  the  hostess  as  if  it  were  usual  for  her  to 
receive  her  guests  in  a  white  temple.  And  mani 
festly  it  was  usual;  for  when  she  had  led  us 
within,  there  on  a  papier  mache  rock  on  the  edge 
of  a  papier  mache  ocean  sat  Hobart  Eddy  him 
self  and  Lawrence  Knight  in  a  dress  as  picturesque 
as  Hobart's;  and  about  them  in  a  confusion  of 
painted  idols  and  crowns  and  robes  were  all  the 
house-party  at  Little  Rosemont  and  a  score  from 
the  countryside. 

"Upon  my  word,"  Pelleas  said,  "they  must  have 
let  us  off  at  Arcady  at  last.  I  always  knew  I'd  buy 
a  through  ticket  some  day." 

Hobart  Eddy  came  forward,  twitching  an  amaz 
ing  shepherd's  cloak  about  him,  and  shook  his  shep 
herd's  crook  at  us. 

"I'm  head  goat,"  he  explained,  "but  they  let  me 


252    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

call  myself  a  goatherd  because  they  think  I  won't 
see  through  the  offence." 

Then  Avis,  laughing,  drew  Pelleas  and  me  away 
to  tell  us  how  at  last  her  dream  had  come  true 
and  that  the  white  temple  was  the  theater  which 
she  had  wanted  for  her  guests  at  Little  Rose- 
mont,  and  that  on  Monday  it  was  to  be  opened 
with  some  tableaux  and  an  open-air  play  on  the 
grass-plot,  under  the  moon.  And  when  she  had 
shown  us  all  the  charms  and  wonders  of  the  pretty 
place  she  led  us  away  for  our  drive  across  the  fields 
to  the  house. 

As  we  emerged  oh  the  wide  portico  Pelleas  stopped 
us  with  a  gesture. 

"Look,"  he  said  softly,  "look  there.  Really,  you 
know,  it's  like  being  somewhere  else." 

Between  the  two  central  pillars  we  could  see  the 
moon  streaming  full  upon  the  tiled  floor;  and  in  the 
brightness  a  little  figure  was  standing,  sandaled  and 
crowned  and  in  white,  a  solitary  portress  of  this 
sylvan  lodge.  She  had  heard  our  approach  and  she 
turned,  a  radiant  little  creature  with  bright  hair 
along  her  straight  gown,  and  drew  back  and  dropped 
a  quick,  unmistakable  courtesy ! 

I  have  seldom  been  more  amazed  than  by  the  dip 
ping  courtesy  of  that  crowned  head.  Then  I  saw 
to  my  further  bewilderment  that  the  salutation  had 
been  intended  for  me.  And  as  I  looked  at  her  a  cer- 


THE   RETURN   OF   ENDYMION  253 

tain  familiarity  in  her  prettiness  smote  me,  -and  I 
knew  her. 

"It  is  Bonnie!"  I  said. 

"O,  ma'am,"  said  Bonnie,  "yes'm,"  and  blushed 
and  waxed  still  prettier.  And  this  was  Bonnie,  the 
little  maid  whom  I  had  last  seen  as  I  sat  with  Enid's 
baby  under  the  pink  crab  apple-tree;  and  she 
was  come  to  Little  Rosemont,  Avis  told  me  later, 
because  her  mother  lived  there  in  charge  of  the 
cedar  linen  room.  (So  her  mother  cannot  have 
been  Demeter  after  all ! )  I  remembered  her 
because  of  her  really  unusual  prettiness  which  in 
print  gowns  and  white  caps  was  hardly  less  nota 
ble  than  in  this  splendour  of  white  robe  and 
unbound  hair.  It  was  easy  to  see  why  Avis  had 
pressed  her  in  service  for  the  Monday  tableaux. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  no  one  could  be  more 
charmingly  picturesque  than  Bonnie.  And  as  I 
looked  down  in  her  face  upturned  to  answer  some 
slight  thing  that  I  was  saying  to  her,  in  a  flash 
something  else  was  clear  to  me.  With  Bonnie 
here  in  this  fair  guise  was  it  not  the  easiest  matter 
in  the  world  to  see  who  had  been  in  the  mind  of 
that  fine  young  fellow  up  yonder  there,  with  man 
drake  in  his  hands  ? 

It  was  a  wild  guess,  if  you  like,  but  a  guess  not 
difficult  to  make  in  that  place  of  enchantment.  I 
protest  that  there  are  nights  when  one  suspects  one's 


254  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

very  gateposts  of  observing  each  other  kindly  across 
one's  gate. 

"Bonnie,"  said  I,  with  an  instant  intention,  "come 
to  my  room  to-night,  please,  and  help  me  about  my 
unpacking.  I've  something  to  say  to  you." 

"O,  yes'm,"  said  Bonnie,  and  I  went  away  smiling 
at  the  incongruity  of  having  a  radiant  creature  in  a 
diadem  to  brush  my  sad  gray  curls. 

"I  have  put  her  in  a  tableau,"  Avis  said,  in  the 
carriage,  "in  'The  Return  of  Endymion.'  She  is 
a  quaint  little  Diana.  I  have  never  seen  such  hair." 

On  which,  "Avis,"  I  asked  serenely,  "who,  pray, 
is  that  fine  young  fellow  hereabout  who  is  in  love  with 
Bonnie?" 

Avis,  sitting  tranquil  in  the  white  light  with  a 
basket  of  rhinestones  in  her  lap,  looked  flatteringly 
startled. 

"Half  an  hour  on  the  place,  Aunt  Etarre,"  she 
said,  shaking  her  head,  "and  you  know  our  one 
romance ! " 

"So  does  Pelleas,"  I  claimed  defensively,  "or,  at 
all  events,  he  has  actually  talked  with  the  lover." 

"Pooh!"  said  Pelleas  in  that  splendid  disdain 
which,  in  matters  of  romance,  he  always  pretends, 
"we  were  talking  botany." 

"That's  he,"  said  Avis,  nodding.  "Bonnie's 
sweetheart  is  the  young  under-gardener  —  if  you  can 
call  a  man  a  sweetheart  who  is  as  shy  as  Karl.  He 


THE   RETURN  OF   ENDYMION  255 

is  really  Faint  Heart.  But  I  think  those  two  little 
people  are  in  love." 

Then  I  learned  how,  ever  since  the  coming  of 
Bonnie  to  Little  Rosemont,  this  big  young  Karl  had 
paid  her  the  most  delicate  and  the  most  distant 
attention.  He  had  brought  roots  of  violets  and  laid 
them  outside  her  window-ledge;  and  he  had  tossed 
in  her  blind  clusters  of  the  first  lady-slippers  and 
the  first  roses.  But  though  all  the  household  at 
Little  Rosemont  had  good-naturedly  done  what  it 
could  to  help  on  the  affair,  some  way  it  had  not 
prospered.  And  as  I  listened  I  resolved  past  all 
doubting  that  something  must  be  done.  For  Pel- 
leas  and  I  are  fain  to  go  through  the  world  seeking 
out  people  who  love  each  other  without  knowing, 
and  saying  to  them:  "Fair  Heart  and  Faint  Heart, 
take  each  other's  hands  and  follow  us." 

Still,  I  was  obliged  to  be  certain  that  Bonnie  was 
in  love  as  well  as  the  young  god  whom  we  had  sur 
prised,  and  I  meant  to  look  in  her  eyes  the  while  I 
named  the  name  of  this  young  Karl.  I  think  that 
there  are  no  eyes  which  I  cannot  read  in  a  like  cir 
cumstance  and  the  pastime  is  one  of  the  delights  of 
my  hours. 

"Bonnie,"  said  I  to  the  little  maid  as  she  brushed 
my  hair  that  night,  "I've  an  idea  that  you  were  wish 
ing  something  delightful  when  you  stood  in  that  great 
doorway  to-night.  Were  you  not?" 


256  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

"O,  ma'am,"  said  little  Bonnie,  and  I  saw  her 
face,  shadowy  above  my  own  in  the  mirror,  burn 
sudden  crimson. 

"Of  course  you  were,"  said  I  briskly.  "Bonnie," 
I  pursued,  "when  I  came  upon  you  I  had  just  seen 
under  a  birch-tree  not  far  away  a  fine  young  fellow 
with  a  flower  in  his  hand.  Can  that  have  been  the 
under-gardener  ?" 

"O,  ma'am,"  said  Bonnie,  "I  s'pose,  if  he  had  a 
flower — "  and  her  voice  trembled,  and  she  did  not 
meet  my  eyes  in  the  mirror. 

"Bonnie!"  said  I. 

Her  eyes  met  mine. 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  said  I  boldly. 

"O,  ma'am,"  she  said,  and  tangled  the  comb  in 
my  sad  gray  curls. 

Whereupon  I  flattered  myself  that  I  had  taken 
Bonnie's  testimony  and  that  I  was  fortified  with  a 
thousand  reasons  for  doing  my  best.  But  it  was  not 
until  the  next  day  that  I  knew  how,  of  all  people,  I 
could  count  on  Hobart  Eddy  to  help  me  to  be  a  kind 
of  servant  of  Fate. 

I  was  in  the  library  next  morning  when,  every  one 
else  being  frightfully  enthusiastic  and  gone  to  look 
at  the  puppies,  he  came  in  and  sat  on  an  ottoman 
at  my  feet  —  dear  Hobart  Eddy,  with  his  tired 
eyes  and  worldly-wise  words  and  smile  of  utter 
sweetness. 


THE   RETURN  OF  ENDYMION  257 

"Aunt  Etarre,"  he  said,  "I  feel  bored  and  miser 
able.  Let's  go  out  in  the  world,  hand  in  hand,  and 
do  a  good  deed.  They  say  it  sets  you  on  your  feet. 
I'd  like  to  try  it." 

I  shook  my  head,  smiling.  Nobody  does  more 
charmingly  generous  things  than  Hobart  and  no 
body,  I  suppose,  poses  for  such  a  man  of  self. 

"No,  Hobart,"  I  said,  "good  deeds  are  a  self-in 
dulgence  to  you." 

"Everything  I  want  to  do  they  say  will  be  a  self- 
indulgence,"  he  observed  reflectively.  "I  dare  say 
when  I  die  they'll  all  say  I  let  myself  go  at  last." 

"What  will  they  say  when  you  fall  in  love?"  I 
asked  idly. 

"What  have  they  said?"  he  parried. 

"Everything,"  I  replied  truthfully. 

"Just  so,"  he  answered;  "you  wouldn't  think 
they  would  have  so  much  ingenuity.  The  queer 
thing,"  he  added  meditatively,  "is  that  such  dull  folk 
have  the  originality  to  get  up  such  good  gossip." 

"But  I  mean,"  I  said,  "when  you  really  fall  in 
love." 

"I  am  in  love,"  he  told  me  plaintively,  "with 
seeing  other  people  in  love.  I  would  go  miles  merely 
to  look  on  two  who  are  really  devoted  to  each  other. 
I  look  about  for  them  everywhere.  Do  you  know," 
he  said,  "speaking  of  being  in  love  myself,  there  is 
a  most  exquisite  creature  in  a  tableau  I'm  in  Mon- 


258  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

day  night.  I  am  in  love  with  her,  but,  by  Jove,  it 
being  a  tableau  I  can't  say  a  word  to  tell  her  so.  It's 
my  confounded  luck.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm  in  a 
tableau  all  the  time  and  can't  say  any  of  the  things 
I  really  mean." 

"And  who  may  she  be?"  I  asked  politely,  being 
old  to  the  meaningless  enthusiasms  of  Hobart  Eddy. 

"By  Jove!  I  didn't  find  out,"  he  remembered. 
"Nobody  knew  when  I  asked  'em.  I  suppose  they 
were  in  a  tableau,  too,  and  speechless.  I  forgot  to 
ask  Avis.  She's  a  goddess,  asleep  on  a  bank.  She's 
Diana  —  sandals  and  crown  and  all  that.  And  I 
believe  I'm  to  come  swooning  down  a  cloud  with  a 
gold  club  in  my  hand.  Anyway  — " 

"Hobart  Eddy,"  I  cried,  "are  you  Endymion?" 

"But  why  not?"  he  asked  with  a  fine  show  of 
indignation;  "do  you  think  I  should  be  just  an  ordi 
nary  shepherd,  with  no  attention  paid  me?" 

"Hobart  Eddy,  Hobart  Eddy,"  I  said,  "listen." 

Then  I  told  him  about  Bonnie  and  Faint  Heart, 
young  god  of  the  gardens.  And  he  heard  me,  smil 
ing,  complaisant,  delighted,  and  at  the  last,  when  he 
had  seen  what  I  had  in  mind,  properly  enthusiastic. 

"Bonnie  is  going  to  look  beautiful  Monday  night, 
Hobart,"  I  impressed  him,  "and  that  boy  will  not 
be  there  to  see  her  —  save  from  far  off,  with  man 
drake  on  his  eyes !  But  he  ought  to  be  there  to  see 
her  —  and  Hobart,  why  can  you  not  take  him  to  the 


THE   RETURN  OF   ENDYMION  259 

wings  with  you  for  the  tableaux  and  pretend  that 
you  need  him  to  help  you  ?  And  after  he  has  seen 
Bonnie  in  her  tableau  you  ought  to  be  trusted  to 
arrange  something  pleasant — " 

He  listened,  pretending  to  be  wholly  amused  at 
my  excitement.  But  for  all  that  he  put  in  a  word  of 
planning  here  and  there  that  made  me  trust  him  — 
dear  Hobart  Eddy. 

"By  Jove!"  he  finally  recalled  plaintively,  "but 
I'm  in  love  with  her  myself,  you  know,  confound  it." 

"Ah,  but  think,"  I  comforted  him,  "how  easily  you 
can  forget  your  loves." 

The  night  of  Monday  came  like  a  thing  of  cloud 
that  had  been  going  before  the  day  and  had  become 
silver  bright  when  the  darkness  overtook  it.  We 
walked  through  the  park  from  the  house  —  Avis  and 
Lawrence  and  Pelleas  and  Hobart  Eddy  and  I,  across 
the  still  fields  never  really  waked  from  sleep  by  any 
human  voice.  And  when  we  came  to  the  little  temple 
the  moon  was  so  bright  that  it  was  as  if  we  had 
passed  into  a  kind  of  day  made  youthful,  as  we 
dream  our  days. 

Pelleas  and  I  found  our  seats  in  one  of  the  half- 
circle  of  boxes  built  of  sweet  boughs,  open  to  the 
moon  and  walled  by  leaves.  There  was  a  vacant 
chair  or  two  and  Avis  and  Lawrence  and  Hobart 
Eddy  sat  with  us  in  turn  while  the  folk  gathered  — 
guests  from  the  near  country-houses,  guests  who  had 


26o  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

motored  out  from  town,  and  the  party  from  Little 
Rosemont.  The  edge  of  the  wood  was  hung  with 
lanterns,  as  if  a  shower  of  giant  sparks  were  held  in 
the  green. 

"How  will  it  be,  Hobart?"  I  asked  him  eagerly 
as  he  joined  us. 

"Be  ?  The  love  story  ?  O,  he's  up  there,"  Hobart 
assured  me,  "happy  as  anything.  I  think  he'll 
put  grease  paint  in  Endymion's  eyes  when  he  comes 
to  make  me  up,  he's  that  bereft."  He  dropped  his 
voice.  "He  has  a  bunch  of  scarlet  salvia  the 
size  of  a  lamp,"  he  confided.  "I  think  he  means  to 
fire  it  at  us  in  the  blessed  middle  of  the  tableau." 

I  am  a  sentimental  old  woman.  For  all  through 
that  evening  of  beautiful  pictures  and  beautiful 
colour,  I  sat  with  my  thought  hovering  about  Bonnie 
and  that  young  Faint  Heart.  And  yet  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  that.  What  better  could  my  thought 
hover  round  than  such  a  joy,  trembling  into  being  ? 

"Pelleas,"  I  whispered,  "O,  Pelleas.  Look  at 
those  people  there,  and  there,  and  down  there.  They 
don't  know  what  a  charming  secret  is  happening." 

"Pooh!"  said  Pelleas,  "they  never  do  know. 
Besides,"  he  added,  "maybe  they  know  one  of  their 


own." 


"Maybe  they  do,"  I  thought,  and  looked  with  new 
eyes  on  that  watching  half-circle,  with  moving  fans 
and  fluttering  scarfs.  That  is  the  best  thing  about 


THE   RETURN  OF   ENDYMION  261 

an  audience :  the  little  happy  secrets  that  are  in  the 
hearts. 

When  "The  Return  of  Endymion"  was  announced 
I  was  in  the  pleasantest  excitement.  For  I  love 
these  hours  when  Love  walks  unmasked  before  me 
and  I  am  able  to  say:  Such  an  one  loves  such  an  one 
and  O,  I  wish  them  well !  The  music  sank  to  a 
single  strain  that  beckoned  to  the  curtain  of  vines 
behind  the  portico;  the  lights  were  lowered  and  a 
ripple  of  expectation,  or  so  I  fancied,  ran  here  and 
there.  And  in  the  same  instant  I  heard  beside  me 
a  familiar  voice. 

"Good  setting  for  'em,  by  Jove  !"  it  said,  and  there 
was  Hobart  Eddy,  dropped  down  between  Pelleas 
and  me. 

"Hobart,"  I  said  excitedly,  "Hobart  Eddy! 
This  is  your  tableau." 

He  smiled,  his  familiar  smile  of  utter  sweetness, 
and  rested  his  chin  on  his  hand  and  looked  at  the 
stage. 

"No,  Aunt  Etarre,"  he  said;   "see." 

Before  the  portico  the  curtain  of  vines  parted  to 
the  tremble  of  the  violins.  There  was  the  slope, 
flower-spangled  like  the  slope  on  which  we  sat  and 
across  which,  two  nights  ago,  Pelleas  and  I  had  fan 
cied  ourselves  to  be  looking  on  immortal  things. 
And  there  on  the  flowets  lay  Diana  asleep,  her  hair 
spread  on  the  green,  the  crescent  glittering  on  her 


262  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

forehead,  her  white  robe  sweeping  her  sandaled  feet. 
This  was  Bonnie,  dear  little  maid,  and  it  was  her 
hour;  she  would  never  again  be  so  beautiful  before 
the  whole  world. 

Even  then  I  hardly  understood  until  I  saw  him 
come  from  the  wings  —  Endymion,  in  the  shepherd's 
cloak,  with  the  shepherd's  crook  in  his  hands.  And 
as  he  went  near  to  her  and  stood  looking  down  at  her, 
Bonnie  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  what  I  saw,  that 
her  Endymion  was  that  young  god  of  an  under- 
gardener.  Erect,  splendid,  crowned  with  oak 
leaves  —  it  was  Karl's  hour,  too,  and  he  had 
come  to  her.  As  the  rose-light  went  stealing  across 
the  picture,  embracing  the  shadows,  glowing  in 
her  awakened  face,  he  opened  his  arms  to  her  and 
caught  her  and  held  her  to  him.  The  light 
burned  vividly  and  beautifully;  and,  all  her  hair 
rippling  on  his  shepherd's  cloak,  she  clung  to  him, 
before  those  people  who  sat  and  never  guessed, 
under  the  moon.  It  was  their  hour,  the  hour  of 
Bonnie  and  Karl,  and  Pelleas  and  I  were  really 
looking  toward  a  place  of  enchantment  and  on 
immortal  things. 

The  curtain  of  vines  swept  together  in  a  soft 
thunder  of  applause.  Who  were  they,  every  one 
was  asking,  but  who  were  they,  who  had  given  to 
the  tableau  a  quality  that  was  less  like  a  picture  than 
like  a  dream  ? 


THE   RETURN  OF   ENDYMION  263 

"Hobart,  Hobart,"  I  said,  trembling,  "how  did  you 
dare?" 

Hobart  Eddy  was  smiling  at  the  ineffectual  en 
treaties  of  the  audience  for  a  repetition  of  the  picture. 
In  vain  they  begged,  the  curtain  of  vines  did  not  lift; 
the  music  swelled  to  a  note  of  finality  and  lights  leaped 
up. 

"He  wasn't  so  faint-hearted,"  said  Hobart  Eddy. 
"To  be  sure,  I  was  obliged  to  make  him  do  it.  But 
then  he  did  it.  Faint  Hearts  aren't  like  that." 

"Hobart,"  said  I  raptly,  "you  are  the  fairy  god 
mother,  after  all." 

"Ah,  well,"  Hobart  Eddy  said  dissentingly,  "I  only 
did  it  because  I  wanted  that  minute  when  she  opened 
her  eyes.  I'd  go  miles  to  see  two  who  are  really  de 
voted.  And  I  was  in  love  with  her  myself,  confound 
it!  But  then,"  he  added  philosophically,  "if  I'd 
been  there  to  take  her  in  my  arms  I  couldn't  have 
looked  on." 

In  the  intermission  before  the  open-air  play  Pel- 
leas  gave  me  a  certain  signal  that  we  know  and  love 
and  he  rose  and  slipped  from  our  box  of  boughs. 
I  followed  him  without,  and  stepped  with  him  across 
the  green  to  the  edge  of  the  wood.  There  we  took 
our  way,  as  we  had  done  on  the  night  of  our  com 
ing,  by  the  path  in  the  trees,  the  path  that  was 
just  wide  enough  for,  say,  two  violets  when  they 
venture  out  to  walk  two  by  two  in  the  safe  night. 


264          LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

"I  was  afraid  we  might  not  be  able  to  come  here 
again,"  Pelleas  explained,  "and  I  thought  we  ought 
.  .  ."  he  added  vaguely.  But  I  understood  for  I 
had  wanted  to  come  no  less  than  he. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  as  we  stepped  along  the  narrow 
way,  "suppose  it  had  been  as  we  fancied  ?  Suppose 
it  had  all  been  some  enchanted  place  that  would  have 
vanished  with  us  ?" 

"Every  time  we  fail  to  vanish  from  this  world," 
Pelleas  said  reflectively,  "something  charming  hap 
pens.  I  suppose  it  is  always  so." 

"O,  always,"  I  echoed  confidently. 


XIV 

THE    GOLDEN   WEDDING 

NEXT  day  heaven  opened  to  us —  a  heaven,  as 
does  not  always  happen,  of  some  one's  else  making. 
Our  dear  Avis  Knight,  fancying  that  Lawrence  was 
looking  rather  worn,  persuaded  him  to  shift  the 
world  to  other  shoulders  while  he  went  off  for 
golden  apples,  and  he  agreed  to  a  cruise  in  the 
yacht.  Whereupon,  Avis  begged  that  Pelleas  and  I 
bring  Nichola  and  spend  at  Little  Rosemont  the 
month  of  their  absence.  The  roses  were  in  full 
bloom  and  Avis  said  prettily  that  she  longed  to  think 
of  us  alone  there  among  them.  Really,  to  have  in 
herited  North  America  would  have  been  nothing 
to  this;  for  Little  Rosemont  is  my  idea  of  a  palace 
and  I  think  is  by  far  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
Long  Island  country  places. 

Therefore  Pelleas  and  I  went  in  town  to  fetch 
various  belongings  and  Nichola.  Or  I  think  I 
should  say  to  approach  Nichola,  that  violent  and 
inevitable  force  to  be  reckoned  with  like  the  weather 
and  earthquakes. 

"Whatever  will  Nichola  say?"  we  had  been 

265 


266  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

wondering  all  the  way  on  train  and  ferry,  and  "What 
ever  will  Nichola  say  ?"  we  put  it  in  a  kind  of  panic, 
as  Pelleas  turned  the  latch-key  at  our  house. 

We  went  at  once  to  the  kitchen  and  as  we  descended 
the  stairs  we  heard  her  singing  low,  like  a  lullaby, 
that  passionate  serenade,  Corn  e  gtntil,  from  Don 
Pasquale.  Her  voice  is  harsh  and  broken  and  sadly 
alien  to  serenades  but  the  tones  have  never  lost  what 
might  have  been  their  power  of  lullaby.  Perhaps  it 
is  that  this  is  never  lost  from  any  woman's  voice. 
At  all  events,  old  Nichola  reduces  street-organ  song, 
and  hymn,  and  aria  di  bravura  to  this  universal  cradle 
measure. 

When  we  appeared  thus  suddenly  before  her  she 
looked  up,  but  she  did  not  cease  her  song.  She  kept 
her  eyes  on  us  and  I  saw  them  light,  but  the  serenade 
went  on  and  her  hands  continued  their  task  above 
the  table. 

"Nichola,"  I  said,  "we  are  invited  to  a  most 
beautiful  place  on  Long  Island  to  stay  a  month 
while  our  friends  are  away.  We  are  to  take  you,  and 
we  must  start  to-morrow.  The  house  has  one  hun 
dred  and  forty  rooms,  Nichola,  and  you  shall  be  my 
lady's  maid,  as  you  used." 

"And  nothing  to  do,  Nichola,  but  pick  roses  and 
sing,"  Pelleas  added,  beaming. 

Our  old  serving-woman  pinched  the  crust  about  a 
plump  new  pie.  On  the  board  lay  a  straggling 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  267 

remnant  of  the  dough  for  the  Guinea  goat.  Nichola 
always  fashioned  from  the  remnant  of  pie-crust  a 
Guinea  goat  which  she  baked  and,  with  a  blanket 
of  jelly,  ate,  beginning  at  the  horns.  Once  in  her 
native  Capri  there  had  appeared,  she  had  told  me, 
a  man  from  West  Africa  leading  a  Guinea  goat 
which  she  averred  could  count;  and  the  incident 
had  so  impressed  her  that  she  had  never  since  made 
a  pie  without  shaping  this  ruminant  quadruped. 
Whether  there  really  ever  was  such  a  goat  I  do  not 
know,  but  Nichola  believed  in  it  and  in  memoriam 
molded  pie-crust  goats  by  the  thousand.  She  has 
even  fried  them  as  doughnuts,  too;  but  these  are  not 
so  successful  for  the  horns  puff  out  absurdly. 

"A  hundred  and  forty  rooms,  Nichola,"  I  said, 
"and  you  shall  be  my  lady's  maid." 

"Yah!"  Nichola  rejoined,  interrupting  her  song 
rather  to  attend  to  pricking  the  pie  crust  with  a  fork 
than  to  reply  to  us;  "don't  look  for  no  lady-maiding 
from  me,  mem.  I'll  be  kep'  busy  countin'  up  the 
windows,  me.  When  do  we  start  off?"  she  wanted 
to  know. 

Nichola  evidently  believed  us  to  be  jesting.  Later 
when  she  found  that  our  extravagant  proposition 
was  the  truth  she  pretended  to  have  known  from  the 
first. 

We  were  in  the  midst  of  our  simple  preparations, 
when  a  wonderful  thing  occurred  to  Pelleas.  I  was 


268  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

folding  my  gown  of  heliotrope  silk  in  its  tissues,  the 
gown  with  the  collar  of  Mechlin  which  is  now  my 
chief  finery,  when  Pelleas  came  in  our  room. 

"Etarre,"  he  said,  "you  know  what  day  comes 
next  week.  And  now  we  shall  spend  it  at  Little 
Rosemont,  alone !" 

I  knew  what  he  meant.  Had  we  not  previously 
talked  of  it  and  mourned  that  it  was  not  possible  to 
us  to  celebrate  that  day  alone,  as  we  had  always 
dreamed  that  one's  golden-wedding  day  should  be 
spent  ? 

"Our  wedding  day  —  our  golden-wedding  day,"  I 
said. 

Pelleas  nodded.  "As  if  they  have  not  all  been 
golden,"  he  observed  simply. 

There  was  in  every  fern  a  nod  for  our  good  fortune 
as  on  that  next  afternoon  Pelleas  and  Nichola  and  I 
drove  up  the  avenue  at  Little  Rosemont.  And  at  the 
very  park  entrance,  though  of  course  we  did  not  know 
that  at  the  time,  a  part  of  our  adventure  began  when 
the  gate  was  opened  by  that  brown,  smiling  young 
under-gardener  Karl,  with  honest  man's  eyes  and  a 
boy's  dimples,  who  bowed  us  into  the  place  like  a 
good  genie.  As  we  returned  his  greeting  we  felt  that 
he  was  in  a  manner  ringing  up  the  curtain  on  the 
spectacle  but  we  did  not  forecast  that  he  was  also 
to  play  a  most  important  part. 

In  the  great  hall  all  the  servants  were  gathered  to 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  269 

welcome  us,  an  ensemble  of  liveries  and  courtesies  in 
which  I  distinguished  only  Mrs.  Woods,  the  house 
keeper,  very  grave,  a  little  hoarse,  and  clothed  on  with 
black  satin.  We  escaped  as  soon  as  possible,  Pelleas 
and  I  not  having  been  formed  by  heaven  to  play  the 
important  squire  and  his  lady  arriving  home  to  bon 
fires  and  village  bells  and  a  chorus  of  our  rent  roll. 
But  once  safely  in  the  lordly  sitting  room  of  our  suite, 
with  its  canopies  and  a  dais,  and  epergnes  filled  with 
orchids,  I  had  but  to  look  at  Pelleas  to  feel  wonder 
fully  at  home.  It  is  a  blessed  thing  to  love  some  one 
so  much  that  you  feel  at  home  together  in  any  place 
of  deserts  or  perils  or  even  lordly  rooms  filled  with 
orchids. 

On  that  first  evening  we  were  destined  to  chance 
upon  another  blessed  thing  of  the  same  quality. 
After  our  solitary  dinner  in  the  stately  dining-room, 
Pelleas  and  I  went  wandering  in  the  grounds,  very 
still  in  the  hush  of  June  with  June's  little  moon 
lying  on  the  sky.  Little  Rosemont  is  a  place  of 
well-swept  lawns,  and  orchards  then  newly  freed  from 
the  spell  of  their  bloom ;  it  is  a  place  of  great  spaces 
and  long  naves,  with  groves  whose  trees  seem  to 
have  been  drawn  together  to  some  secret  lyre.  The 
house  is  a  miracle  of  line  and  from  its  deep  verandas 
one  sees  afar  off  a  band  of  the  sea,  as  if  some  god 
had  struck  it  from  the  gray  east.  And  everywhere  at 
that  glad  season  were  the  roses,  thousands  and 


*7*     LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

thousands  of  roses  —  ah,  fancy  using  figures  to 
compute  roses  quite  as  one  does  in  defraying  debts. 
Though  indeed  as  Pelleas  frivolously  said,  "'Time 
brings  roses'  but  so  does  money!"  For  many  of 
those  assembled  were  from  Persia  and  Cashmere  and 
I  dare  say  from  Lud  and  Phut.  I  think  that  I  have 
never  had  an  experience  of  great  delight  at  which  a 
band  of  familiar,  singing  things  was  not  present; 
and  when  I  remember  the  month  at  Little  Rose- 
mont  it  is  as  if  the  roses  were  the  musical  interludes, 
like  a  Greek  chorus,  explaining  what  is.  They 
hang  starry  on  almost  every  incident;  unless 
perhaps  on  that  of  the  night  of  our  arrival,  when 
we  are  told  that  Nichola  in  the  servants'  dining-hall 
produced  a  basket  which  she  had  brought  with  her 
and  calmly  took  therefrom  her  Guinea  goat  of  the 
day  before  and  ate  it,  before  all  assembled,  beginning 
at  the  horns ! 

From  the  driveway  on  that  first  walk  Pelleas  and  I 
looked  up  to  a  balcony  over  which  the  roses  were  at 
carnival.  It  was  the  kind  of  balcony  that  belongs 
to  a  moon  and  I  half  suspect  all  such  balconies  to  be 
moon-made  and  invisible  by  sun  or  starlight;  it  was 
the  kind  of  balcony  that  one  finds  in  very  old  books, 
and  one  is  certain  that  if  any  other  than  a  lover  were 
to  step  thereon  it  would  forthwith  crumble  away. 
Pelleas,  looking  up  at  the  balcony,  irrelevantly  said :  — 

"  Do  you  remember  the  young  rector  over  there  in 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  271 

Inglese  ?  The  Reverend  Arthur  Didbin  ?  Who 
married  Viola  to  Our  Telephone  the  other  day  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  Pelleas,"  said  I,  listening.  What 
could  the  Reverend  Arthur  Didbin  have  to  do  with 
this  balcony  of  roses  ? 

"I've  been  thinking,"  Pelleas  went  on,  "that  next 
week,  on  our  golden-wedding  day  you  know,  we  might 
have  him  come  up  here  in  the  evening  —  there  will 
be  a  full  moon  then — "  he  hesitated. 

"Yes,  yes?"  I  pressed  him,  bewildered. 

"Well,  and  we  might  have  him  read  the  service 
for  us,  just  we  three  up  there  on  the  balcony.  The 
marriage  service,  Etarre  —  unless  you  think  it  would 
be  too  stupid  and  sentimental,  you  know?" 

"Stupid!"  I  said,  "O,  Pelleas." 

"Ah,  well,  Nichola  would  think  we  were  mad,"  he 
defended  his  scruples. 

"But  she  thinks  so  anyway,"  I  urged,  "and  besides 
she  will  never  know.  But  Mr.  Didbin  —  what  of 
him?"  I  asked  doubtfully;  "will  he  laugh  or  will  he 
understand  ?" 

Pelleas  reflected. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  said,  "Hobart  told  me  that  one 
night  when  Mr.  Didbin's  train  ran  into  an  open  switch 
he  walked  through  six  miles  of  mud  to  marry  a 
little  country  couple  whom  he  had  never  seen." 

And  that  confirmed  us :  The  Reverend  Arthur  Did 
bin  would  understand. 


272  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

We  stepped  on  in  the  pleasant  light  talking  of  this 
quite  as  if  we  had  a  claim  on  moon-made  balconies 
and  were  the  only  lovers  in  the  world.  That  we 
were  not  the  only  lovers  we  were  soon  to  discover. 
At  the  edge  of  a  grove,  where  a  midsummer-night- 
dream  of  a  fountain  tinkled,  we  emerged  on  a  green 
slope  spangled  with  little  flowers;  and  on  its  marge 
stood  a  shallow  arbour  formed  like  a  shell  or  a  petal 
and  brave  with  bloom.  We  hastened  toward  it, 
certain  that  it  had  risen  from  the  green  to  receive  us, 
and  were  close  upon  it  before  we  saw  that  it  was 
already  occupied.  And  there  sat  Bonnie,  the  little 
maid  whose  romance  we  had  openly  fostered,  and 
with  her  that  young  Karl,  the  under-gardener,  whom 
we  observed  in  an  instant  Avis  could  never  call 
Faint  Heart  any  more. 

Pelleas  glanced  at  me  merrily  as  we  immediately 
turned  aside  pretending  to  be  vastly  absorbed  in 
some  botanical  researches  on  the  spangled  evening 
slope. 

"Bless  us,  Etarre,"  he  said,  smiling,  "what  a  world 
it  is.  You  cannot  possibly  hollow  out  an  arbour 
anywhere  without  two  lovers  waiting  to  occupy  it." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  I,  "the  only  difficulty  is  that  there 
are  more  lovers  than  arbours.  Here  are  we  for  ex 
ample,  arbourless." 

But  that  we  did  not  mind.  On  the  contrary,  being 
meddlers  where  arbours  and  so  on  are  concerned,  we 


THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING  273 

set  about  finding  out  more  of  the  two  whom  we  had 
surprised.  This  was  not  difficult  because  we  had 
brought  with  us  Nichola;  and  through  her  we  were 
destined  to  develop  huge  interest  in  the  household. 
Nichola  indeed  talked  of  them  all  perpetually  while 
she  was  about  my  small  mending  and  dressing  and 
she  scolded  shrilly  at  matters  as  she  found  them  quite 
as  she  habitually  criticizes  all  orders  and  systems. 
Nichola  is  in  conversation  a  sad  misanthrope,  which 
is  a  pity,  for  she  does  not  know  it ;  and  to  know  it  is, 
one  must  suppose,  the  only  compensation  for  being  a 
misanthrope.  She  inveighed  for  example  against  the 
cook  and  the  head  laundress  who  had  a  most  fright 
ful  feud  of  long  standing,  jealously  nourished,  though 
neither  now  had  the  faintest  idea  in  what  it  had  arisen 
—  was  this  not  cosmopolitan  and  almost  human  of 
these  two  ?  And  Nichola  railed  at  the  clannishness 
of  the  haughty  Scotch  butler  until  he  one  day  opened 
an  entry  door  for  her,  after  which  she  softened  her 
carping,  as  is  the  way  of  the  world  also,  and  ob 
jected  only  to  what  she  called  his  "animal  brogue," 
for  all  the  speeches  of  earth  alien  to  the  Italian  are 
to  Nichola  a  sign  of  just  so  much  black  inferiority. 
And  she  went  on  at  a  furious  rate  about  the  scandalous 
ways  of  "Reddie,"  the  second  stableman,  who,  she 
declared,  "kep'  the  actual  rats  in  the  stable  floor 
with  their  heads  off  their  pillows,  what  with  his 
playin'  on  a  borrow*  fiddle  that  he'd  wen'  to  work  an' 


274  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

learnt  of  himself."  Through  Nichola  we  also  had 
our  attention  directed  to  Mrs.  Woods'  groveling  fear 
of  burglars  —  her  one  claim  to  distinction  unless  one 
includes  that  she  pronounced  them  "burgulars." 
And  too  we  heard  of  the  sinful  pride  of  Sarah  McLean 
of  the  cedar  linen  room  who  declared  in  the  hearing 
of  the  household  that  one  of  her  ancestors  was  a 
Hittite.  Where  she  had  acquired  this  historic  im 
pression  we  never  learned  nor  with  what  she  had 
confused  the  truth;  but  she  stoutly  clung  to  her 
original  assertion  and  on  one  occasion  openly  told 
the  housekeeper  that  as  for  her  family-tree  it  was  in 
the  Old  Testament  Bible;  and  the  housekeeper, 
crossing  herself,  told  this  to  Nichola  who  listened, 
making  the  sign  of  the  horn  to  ward  away  the  evil. 
It  was  like  learning  the  secrets  of  a  village;  but  the 
greatest  of  these  realities  proved  to  be  Bonnie 
McLean,  daughter  of  her  of  Hittite  descent,  and 
Karl,  the  under-gardener  and  the  genie  of  the 
gate.  Picture  the  agitation  of  Pelleas  and  me  when 
Nichola  told  us  this :  — 

"Yes,  mem,"  she  said,  "them  two,  they're  in  love 
pitiful.  But  the  young  leddy's  mother,  she's  a  widdy- 
leddy  an'  dependent  on.  An'  as  for  the  young 
fellow,  he's  savin'  up  fer  to  get  his  own  mother  acrost 
from  the  old  country  an'  when  he  does  it  they're 
agoin'  to  get  marrit.  But  he  needs  eighty  dollars 
an'  so  far  they  say  he's  got  nine.  Ain't  it  the 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  275 

shame,  mem,  an*  the  very  potatoes  in  this  house  with 
cluster  diamin's  in  their  eyes?" 

Surely  Avis  did  not  know  this  about  the  young 
lovers  —  Avis,  one  of  whose  frocks  would  have  set 
the  two  at  housekeeping  with  the  mother  from  "the 
old  country"  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Pelleas  and 
I  were  certain  that  she  did  not  know,  although  we 
have  found  that  there  are  charming  people  of  colossal 
interests  to  whom  one  marriage  more  or  less  seems 
to  count  for  as  little  as  a  homeless  kitten,  or  a  "fledg 
ling  dead,"  or  the  needless  felling  of  an  ancient  oak. 
But  it  is  among  these  things  that  Pelleas  and  I  live, 
and  we  believe  that  in  spite  of  all  the  lovers  in  the 
world  there  is  yet  not  enough  love  to  spare  one  lover's 
happiness.  So  while  the  moon  swelled  to  the  full 
and  swung  through  the  black  gulf  of  each  night  as 
if  it  had  been  shaped  by  heaven  for  that  night's  ap 
pointment,  we  moved  among  the  roses  of  Little  Rose- 
mont,  biding  our  golden-wedding  day,  gradually  be 
coming  more  and  more  intent  upon  the  romance  and 
the  homely  realities  of  that  liveried  household. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  story  of  Bonnie  and  Karl  that 
suggested  to  Pelleas  the  next  step  in  our  adventure; 
or  it  may  have  been  our  interest  in  "Reddie,"  whom 
we  unearthed  in  the  stable  one  afternoon  and  who, 
radiant,  played  for  us  for  an  hour  and  fervently 
thanked  us  when  he  had  concluded.  At  all  events, 
as  our  day  of  days  came  on  apace  Pelleas  became  con- 


276  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

vinced  that  it  was  infamously  selfish  for  us  to  spend 
it  in  our  own  way.  Because  heaven  had  opened 
to  us  was  that  a  reason  for  occupying  heaven  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  joys  of  others  ? 

"Etarre,"  he  said  boldly,  "there  is  not  the  least 
virtue  in  making  those  about  one  happy.  That  is 
mere  civilization.  But  there  is  nobody  about  us  but 
Avis'  servants.  And  she  told  us  to  make  ourselves 
at  home.  Let's  give  all  the  servants  a  holiday  on 
that  day  and  get  on  by  ourselves." 

"We  might  let  them  picnic  in  the  grounds/'  I 
suggested  doubtfully. 

"With  lemonade  and  cake,"  Pelleas  submitted. 

"Lemonade  and  cake  !"I  retorted  with  superiority; 
"the  servants  of  to-day  expect  lobster  and  cham 
pagne." 

"Ah,  well,"  Pelleas  defiantly  maintained,  "I  be 
lieve  they  will  like  your  cream  tarts  anyway."  He 
meditated  for  a  moment  and  then  burst  out  dar 
ingly  :  "  Etarre  !  Would  Avis  care  ?  Of  course  she 
could  never  do  it  herself;  but  do  you  think  she 
would  care  if  we  let  them  all  come  up  that  night  and 
dance  in  the  great  hall?" 

I  stared  at  Pelleas  aghast. 

"But  they  wouldn't  like  it,  Pelleas!"  I  cried; 
"servants,  in  this  day,  are  different.  That  butler 
now  —  O,  Pelleas,  he'd  never  do  it." 

"Indeed  he  would,"  Pelleas  returned  confidently; 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  277 

"he's  a  fine  Scot  with  a  very  decent  bagpipe  in  his 
clothes  closet.  I've  seen  it.  I'll  get  him  to  bring 
it!"  Pelleas  declared  with  assurance. 

"But  why — "  I  quavered  momentarily;  "and 
why  not?"  I  instantly  went  on;  "the  very  thing!" 
I  ended,  as  triumphantly  as  if  I  had  thought  the  mat 
ter  out  quite  for  myself.  "And,  if  you  like,  Pelleas, 
I'll  oversee  the  making  of  the  cream  tarts  for  the 
whole  company!"  I  added,  not  to  be  outdone. 

It  is  amazing  what  pleasant  incredulities  become 
perfectly  possible  when  once  you  attack  them  as 
Nichola  attacks  her  Guinea  goats,  beginning  at  the 
horns. 

So  that  was  why,  having  broached  the  subject  to 
those  concerned  as  delicately  as  if  we  had  been  pro 
viding  entertainment  for  a  minister  of  state ;  having 
been  met  with  the  enthusiasm  which  such  a  min 
ister  might  exhibit  as  diplomacy;  and  having  my 
self  contributed  to  the  event  by  the  preparation  of  a 
mountain  of  my  chef  d'aeuvre,  the  frozen  cream  tarts 
which  Pelleas  appears  to  think  would  be  fitting  for 
both  thrones  and  ministers  assembled,  he  and  I 
stood  together  at  half  after  eight  on  the  evening  of 
our  golden-wedding  day  and,  in  the  middle  of  our 
lordly  sitting  room,  looked  at  each  other  with  tardy 
trembling.  Now  that  the  occasion  was  full  upon 
us  it  seemed  a  Titanic  undertaking.  I  was  certain 
that  far  from  being  delighted  the  servants  were 


278  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

alarmed  and  derisive  and  wary  of  our  advances; 
that  "Reddie"  would  at  the  last  moment  refuse  to 
play  upon  his  borrowed  fiddle  for  the  dancing;  and 
that  the  haughty  Scotch  butler  would  be  bored  to 
extinction. 

"O,  Pelleas!"  I  said  miserably,  as  we  went  down 
the  grand  staircase,  "it's  a  terrible  business,  this 
attempt  at  philanthropy  among  the  servants  in  high 
places." 

"At  all  events,"  said  Pelleas  brightly,  "we  are  not 
plotting  to  improve  them.  Though  of  course  if  that 
is  done  in  the  right  way — "  he  added,  not  to  be 
thought  light-minded.  Pelleas  has  an  adorable 
habit  of  saying  the  most  rebellious  things,  but  it  is 
simply  because  he  is  of  opinion  that  a  great  deal 
of  nonsense  is  talked  by  those  who  have  not  the  brains 
to  rebel. 

On  a  sudden  impulse  he  drew  me  aside  to  the 
latticed  window  of  the  landing  and  pushed  it  ajar. 
The  moon  rode  high  above  the  oaks;  it  was  as  if  the 
night  stood  aside  in  delighted  silence  in  this  exalted 
moment  of  the  moon's  full.  Around  the  casement 
the  roses  gathered,  so  that  the  air  was  sweet. 

"Ah,  well,"  Pelleas  said  softly,  "I  dare  say  they'll 
like  it.  They  must  —  'in  such  a  night.'  We'll 
leave  them  to  themselves  in  a  little  while.  The 
Reverend  Arthur  Didbin  will  be  here  at  ten,  re 
member." 


THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING  279 

The  great  honey-tongued  clock  beside  us  touched 
the  silence  with  the  half  hour. 

"Pelleas,"  I  whispered  him,  "O,  Pelleas.  It  was 
fifty  years  ago  this  very  minute.  We  were  saying, 
<  I  will 'and 'I  will.'" 

"Well,"  said  Pelleas,  "we  have,  dear.  Though 
we  may  yet  fall  out  on  a  question  of  Angora  cats  and 
the  proper  way  to  lay  an  open  fire." 

We  smiled,  but  we  understood.  And  we  lin 
gered  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Let  me  say  to  all 
skeptics  that  it  is  worth  being  married  an  hundred 
years  to  attain  such  a  moment  as  that. 

Then  as  we  went  down  the  stairs  the  dining-room 
door  suddenly  burst  open  with  an  amazing,  eerie 
clamour;  and  into  the  great  oak-paneled  hall 
marched  the  haughty  Scotch  butler  in  full  Highland 
costume,  plaid  and  bare  knees  and  feather,  playing 
on  his  bagpipe  like  mad.  No  peril,  then,  of  his 
being  bored  to  extinction,  nor  the  others,  as  we 
were  soon  to  find.  For  the  bagpipe  gave  the  signal 
and  immediately  came  pouring  from  below  stairs  the 
great  procession  of  our  guests.  My  old  head  grows 
quite  giddy  as  I  try  to  recount  them.  There  were 
Mrs.  Woods,  very  grave,  a  little  hoarse,  and  clothed 
on  with  black  satin;  and  the  mother  of  Bonnie  in 
brown  silk  and  a  cameo  pin,  as  became  a  daughter 
of  the  Hittites;  and  Bonnie  herself  of  exquisite  pretti- 
ness  in  white  muslin  and  rosebuds;  and  Karl  in  his 


280  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

well-brushed  black;  and  "Reddie,"  his  face  shining 
above  a  flaming  cravat;  and  the  cook  and  the  head 
laundress  who  had  entered  competitive  toilettes  like 
any  gentlewomen;  and  the  other  menservants  in 
decent  apparel;  and  a  bevy  of  chic  maids  in  crisp 
finery  and  very  high  heels.  Led  by  Mrs.  Woods 
they  came  streaming  toward  us  and  shook  our  hands 
—  was  ever  such  a  picture  anywhere,  I  wondered,  as  I 
saw  them  moving  between  the  priceless  tapestries  and 
clustering  about  the  vast  marble  fireplace  that  came 
from  the  quarries  of  Africa.  And  to  our  unbounded 
gratification  they  seemed  immensely  to  like  it  all 
and  not  to  have  lost  their  respect  for  us  because  we 
were  civil  to  them.  Then  when,  presently,  we  had 
sent  "Reddie"  and  his  fiddle  up  to  the  pillared  musi 
cians'  gallery,  they  all  rose  to  his  first  strains  and 
in  an  instant  the  Scotch  butler  had  led  out  the  crispest 
and  highest-heeled  of  the  maids  and  they  all  danced 
away  with  a  will.  Danced  very  well  too.  It  is 
amazing  how  tricks  of  deportment  are  communicable 
from  class  to  class.  If  I  were  to  offer  to  solve  the 
servant  problem  I  conclude  that  I  would  suggest  to 
all  employers :  Be  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen 
yourselves  and  live  with  all  dignity  and  daintiness. 
Though  I  dare  say  that  I  am  a  very  impractical  old 
woman,  but  all  the  virtue  in  the  world  does  not  lie 
in  practicality  either. 

In  a  little  time  Pelleas  slipped  away  to  brew  a 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  281 

steaming  punch  —  a  harmless  steaming  punch  made 
from  a  recipe  which  my  mother,  who  was  a  high 
church  woman,  always  compounded  for  dining  arch 
bishops  and  the  like.  Bonnie  and  Karl  did  not  dance 
but  sat  upon  an  old  stone  window  seat  brought  from 
Thebes  and  watched  with  happy  eyes.  And  when 
the  punch  came  in  we  wheeled  it  before  them  and 
they  served  every  one. 

In  that  lull  in  the  dancing  I  looked  about  with 
sudden  misgiving;  Nichola  was  not  with  us.  Where 
was  Nichola,  that  faithful  old  woman,  and  why  was 
she  not  at  our  party  ?  She  had  left  me  in  full  season 
to  make  ready. 

"Where  is  Nichola?"  I  anxiously  demanded  of 
Pelleas,  reproaching  myself  for  my  neglect. 

Pelleas  did  not  immediately  answer  and  when  I 
looked  up  I  fancied  that  I  detected  his  eyes  twinkling. 
But  before  I  could  wonder  or  inquire  came  that 
which  it  makes  my  heart  beat  now  to  remember. 
Without  the  slightest  warning  there  sounded  and 
echoed  a  violent  summons  on  the  great  entrance 
doors.  Nothing  could  have  created  more  consterna 
tion  than  did  the  innocent  fall  of  that  silver  knocker 
at  Little  Rosemont. 

I  chanced  to  be  sitting  near  the  door  and  I  think 
that  I  must  have  risen  in  astonishment.  I  saw 
Pelleas  whirl  in  concern,  and  I  was  conscious 
of  the  instant  lull  in  the  animated  talk.  Then  the 


282  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Scotch  butler  recovered  himself  and  in  full  Highland 
costume,  with  bare  knees,  he  sprang  to  his  post 
quite  as  if  this  had  been  at  the  head  of  a  mountain 
pass  and  threw  wide  the  door. 

"Upon  my  word!"  I  heard  exclaiming  a  fine, 
magnetic  voice,  "upon  my  word,  a  party.  Let  us 
blush  and  withdraw." 

But  they  came  crowding  to  the  door;  and  there  in 
motor  caps  and  coats  stood  a  gay  company  of  our 
friends  and  the  friends  of  Avis,  and  of  them 
Madame  Sally  Chartres  and  Wilfred;  and  Lisa  and 
her  uncle,  Dudley  Manners,  who  were  guests  near  by 
at  Chynmere  Hall;  and  Hobart  Eddy,  whose  was 
the  voice  that  I  had  heard.  They  had  motored  out 
from  town  and  from  places  roundabout  us  and  were 
come  to  pay  us  a  visit. 

"Sally!"  said  I  feebly.  Sally  was  with  Hobart 
Eddy  who  adores  her  and,  his  critics  say,  affects  her 
so-picturesque  company  to  add  to  his  so-popular 
eccentricities.  And  with  them  came  a  cloud  of  the 
mighty,  a  most  impressive  cloud  of  witnessing  rail 
way  presidents  and  bankers  and  statesmen  and  the 
like;  and  all  spectators  at  our  party. 

"Ah,  Etarre!"  Sally  cried  blithely,  "this  is 
charming.  But  —  we  are  not  invited." 

"No  one  is  invited,"  said  I  faintly,  "we  all  belong 
here.  Ah,"  I  cried,  as  the  humour  of  it  overcame  me, 
"come  in.  Do  come  in.  The  punch  is  just  served." 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  283 

They  needed  no  second  bidding.  In  they  all 
marched  in  the  merriest  of  humours,  not  in  the  least 
understanding  the  meaning  of  that  strange  assembly 
but  with  sufficient  of  moon  magic  and  the  swift 
motion  in  their  dancing  blood  to  be  ready  for  every 
thing.  And  while  Pelleas  led  them  away  to  the  bil 
liard  room  to  put  aside  their  wraps,  I  found  Hobart 
Eddy  beside  me.  And  somehow,  before  I  knew,  I 
was  telling  him  all  about  the  occasion  and  at  his 
beseeching  actually  leading  him  from  one  to  another 
and  soberly  presenting  him  to  Mrs.  Woods  and  the 
daughter  of  the  Hittites  and  the  cook.  Only  to  see 
that  elegant  young  leader  of  cotillons  bowing  before 
the  head  laundress  in  her  competitive  toilette  was 
something  to  remember. 

"  And  voila  mes  enfants,  the  sweethearts,"  he  mur 
mured  as  we  halted  near  the  window  seat  from  Thebes. 
There  sat  Bonnie  and  Karl,  intent  upon  each  other, 
she  with  a  flush  on  her  face  that  matched  the  rose 
buds  of  her  frock.  And  how  it  happened  I  hardly 
know,  save  that  I  was  at  that  moment  a  distracted 
old  woman  and  that  in  matters  of  romance  I  invari 
ably  lose  my  head  ;  but  I  instantly  went  a  little  mad 
and  told  Hobart  Eddy  all  about  that  young  Endymion 
and  his  Diana  of  the  tableaux:  how  Endymion's  old 
mother  must  be  spirited  from  "the old  country  "  before 
they  might  be  married;  and  even  how  eighty  dollars 
was  necessary  and  how  they  had  only  nine.  I  had  just 


284  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

paused  breathless  when  the  others  came  trooping 
from  the  den,  and  Sally  Chartres  in  white  cloth  and 
white  curls  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  Mr.  D.udley 
Manners  —  he  is  king  of  some  vast  part  of  the 
mineral  or  vegetable  kingdom  at  the  moment  though 
they  modestly  call  it  only  a  corner  —  and  insisted 
on  meeting  every  one,  on  hearing  the  bagpipe, 
on  listening  to  "Reddie"  play,  and  on  being  a  good 
angel  with  a  cloud  of  the  mighty  at  her  side. 

In  the  midst  of  this  bewildering  business  the  din 
ing-room  doors  opened  and  in  came  the  tall  and  smil 
ing  footmen  whose  part  was  to  bring  up  the  supper 
of  cold  dainties.  And  even  in  that  moment  my 
heart  thrilled  with  thanksgiving  and  pride  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  one  tall  footman  who  bore 
the  tray  of  those  cream  tarts  of  mine.  I  say  it 
boldly,  and  Pelleas  said  it  first:  there  never 
was  such  a  decoction  of  thick,  frozen  cream  and 
foamy  chocolate  in  this  world  of  delectables.  I 
could  not  veil  my  satisfaction  as  I  saw  these  set  upon 
the  table  where  the  plates  were  piled,  and  of  a  truth 
they  looked  so  delicious  that  for  an  instant  it  seemed 
to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  Ho- 
bart  Eddy  should  leap  from  his  place  at  my  side  as 
if  he  had  gone  suddenly  mad  at  the  sight. 

"  Wait,  please  !  "  he  cried  ringingly,  "  no  one  must 
touch  anything  yet ! " 

On  which  he  sprang  up  the  step  that  leads  to  the 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  285 

great  yellow  salon,  lighted  to  enhance  the  look  of 
festivity,  and  thus  stood  directly  back  of  the  supper 
table.  He  was  very  handsome,  his  face  alight 
and  glowing,  his  erect,  compact  figure  drawn  to  its 
full  height.  And  before  I  could  even  guess  what  he 
was  about,  what  had  he  done,  this  idol  of  society, 
this  deviser  of  the  eccentric,  but  make  his  friends 
know  in  a  burst  of  amazing  eloquence  all  that  I 
had  just  told  him  of  the  love  story  of  Bonnie  and 
Karl,  save  their  very  names. 

His  friends  listened,  curious,  ready  to  be  amused, 
and  at  the  last  genuinely  diverted;  and  the  house 
hold  of  Little  Rosemont  listened,  bewildered,  not 
knowing  what  to  expect;  and  as  for  Bonnie  and  Karl 
and  Pelleas  and  me,  we  four  listened  and  doubted 
the  evidence  of  our  own  senses,  until :  — 

"Therefore,"  cried  Hobart  Eddy,  "I  offer  at 
auction  a  portion  of  the  contents  of  this  table,  es 
pecially  one  fourth  of  this  tray  of  amazing  tarts, 
as  an  all-star  benefit  for  these  two  young  people. 
Also,  I  offer  a  limited  number  of  glasses  of  yonder 
punch  —  hey,  Mannie  !"  he  called  warningly  to  Mr. 
Dudley  Manners,  who  stood  with  a  punch  glass  in 
his  hand;  "drop  it  down,  man!" 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Manners, 
merrily;  "I'll  bid  five  for  it  first,  you  know!" 

"Done!"  cried  Hobart  Eddy,  rapping  on  the 
table,  "and  what  am  I  bid  for  this  first  appetizing 


286  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

and  innocent  confection,  this  tart,  all  compact  of 
cream  and  spices  — "  So  he  went  on,  and  I  clung  to 
my  chair  and  expected  the  whole  place  to  crumble 
away  and  Nichola  to  call  me  to  breakfast  in  New 
York.  It  was  too  wonderful. 

But  it  was  all  true.  They  were  caught  in  the 
spirit  of  the  happy  hour  as  if  this  had  been  some 
new  game  contrived  to  tempt  their  flagging  in 
terests.  They  gathered  about  the  table,  they  bid 
one  another  down,  they  prompted  the  auctioneer, 
they  escaped  to  corners  with  cream  tarts  —  my 
cream  tarts !  —  for  which  they  had  paid  a  price  that 
made  me  tremble.  And  as  for  our  original  guests, 
they  were  lined  up  at  a  respectful  distance,  but  quite 
frantic  with  the  excitement,  for  they  were  all  devoted 
—  as  who  would  not  have  been  ?  —  to  the  two  to 
whom  this  would  mean  all  happiness.  And  as  for 
Bonnie  and  Karl,  scarce  able  to  breathe  they  sat  on 
the  stone  bench  from  Thebes  and  clung  to  each  other's 
hands.  Ah,  there  never  was  such  an  hour.  It 
makes  me  young  to  think  of  it. 

So  it  went  on  until  the  last  tart  of  the  portion  which 
he  had  reserved  was  auctioned  to  the  highest  bidder. 
And  hardly  had  Hobart  Eddy  invited  the  others  to 
the  table  and  paused  for  breath  when  the  question 
that  had  been  forced  from  my  mind  by  the  unex 
pected  arrivals  was  answered :  Nichola  appeared  in 
the  dining-room  door. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  287 

She  had  made  herself  splendid  in  her  best  frock, 
a  flaming  scarlet  merino;  for  Nichola  has  never  lost 
her  Italian  love  of  colour.  On  her  head  she  had  a 
marvelous  cap  of  the  kind  that  she  can  fashion  at 
a  moment's  notice  from  a  linen  pillow  case  and  a  bit 
of  string.  And  she  too  bore  a  tray,  a  tray  of  that 
which  had  detained  her  below  stairs  fashioning  it 
for  a  surprise,  a  tray,  in  short,  heaped  with  tiers 
and  tiers  of  pie-crust  Guinea  goats. 

On  these  Hobart  Eddy  seized  with  an  ardour 
that  was  beautiful  to  see.  Nichola,  frowning  ter 
ribly,  stood  back  half  minded  to  break  into  shrill 
upbraidings.  And  while  I  was  trying  between  my 
tears  and  smiles  to  make  her  know  what  it  was  all 
about,  her  whole  herd  of  goats  was  sold  off  at  a  price 
which  she  afterward  told  me,  privately,  was  as  high 
as  the  Pope  in  the  Vatican  could  expect  for  his  pie 
crusts. 

They  swept  the  pile  of  crisp  notes  and  shining  coin 
into  a  hat  and  thrust  it  in  the  hands  of  Nichola,  who 
stood  nearest;  and  that  old  woman  at  their  bidding 
crossed  the  slippery  oaken  floor  and  poured  the 
treasure  in  the  lap  of  little  Bonnie,  while  the  daughter 
of  the  Hittites  sobbed  on  the  first  shoulder,  which 
chanced  to  be  that  of  her  ancient  enemy,  the  house 
keeper. 

Nichola's  presentation  speech  was  brief  and  to  the 
point. 


288  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

"Here,"  she  said,  "get  marrit." 

Bonnie,  dear  little  maid  in  muslin  and  rosebuds, 
stood  up  with  Karl,  both  pink  and  white  to  see;  and 
they  bowed,  and  laughed  through  their  tears.  Ah, 
there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  others  of  us  too  as  we 
looked;  and  Madame  Sally  Chartres  and  a  very 
gay  and  magnificent  Mrs.  Dane-Orvil  and  the  cook 
formed  one  group  and  impartially  smiled  at  one 
another.  Some  way,  a  mask  had  fallen. 

With  Nichola's  words  still  in  our  ears  the  clock 
chimed  quarter  after  ten,  and  in  the  moonlight  of 
the  open  door  appeared  on  a  sudden  the  eager, 
concerned  face  of  the  Reverend  Arthur  Didbin,  come 
to  keep  his  appointment  with  Pelleas  and  me. 

At  sight  of  him  Pelleas  fairly  beamed. 

"Why  not?"  he  cried  out;  "what  do  these  two 
young  people  say  ?  Why  shall  they  not  be  mar 
ried  now?" 

Why  not,  indeed  ?  The  proposition  was  met  with 
acclamation.  They  hardly  waited  for  the  fright 
ened,  ecstatic  nod  of  star-eyed  little  Bonnie  before 
they  had  the  supper  table  pushed  aside  —  indeed, 
I  do  not  remember  now  whether  it  was  the  railway 
president  and  Mr.  Dudley  Manners  who  did  most  of 
the  work  or  the  Scotch  butler  and  the  footmen,  for 
they  all  helped  together.  And  Bonnie  and  Karl 
stood  up  in  the  door  of  the  salon,  and  so  did  the 
daughter  of  the  Hittites,  and  Hobart  Eddy  insisted 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  189 

on  being  joint  best  man  with  the  Scotch  butler, 
and  the  Reverend  Arthur  Didbin  married  the  two 
young  lovers  then  and  there.  I  have  always  held 
that  the  license  demanded  in  some  parts  is  unro- 
mantic  nonsense. 

After  that  there  was  a  blur  of  adieux,  and 
Hobart  Eddy  kissed  my  hand  and  even  when  his 
machine  had  been  started  came  running  back  in  the 
moonlight  to  get  from  Karl  the  address  of  his  mother 
"in  the  old  country"  so  that  he  might  cable  to  her 
and  have  her  rejoicing  by  next  morning.  No, 
never  tell  me  that  any  man  is  mere  idler  and  dilet 
tante,  for  I  have  seen  the  heart  of  one  such  and  here 
after  I  dare  not  disbelieve  in  any  one. 

They  all  swept  down  the  moonlit  drive,  hands 
waving,  motor  horns  sounding;  and  the  haughty 
Scotch  butler  in  full  Highland  costume  stood  between 
two  pillars  and  played  his  bagpipe  to  speed  them  on 
their  way.  The  door  of  the  tonneau  of  the  last 
motor  had  just  been  hospitably  opened  with  the 
offer  to  set  down  the  Reverend  Arthur  Didbin  in  the 
village  when  that  gentleman,  his  gray  hair  blowing, 
hurried  to  where  Pelleas  and  I  were  standing. 

"But,"  he  said  anxiously,  "did  you  not  wish  me 
for  something?  Did  you  not  wish — " 

At  that  Pelleas  and  I  looked  away  from  each  other 
in  sudden  consternation  and  then  with  one  accord 
smiled  and  shook  our  heads.  With  our  assurance 


290  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

he  turned  away  and  in  silence  we  watched  him  down 
the  drive.  And  after  the  last  motor  had  disappeared 
behind  the  shrubbery  Pelleas  and  I  lingered  alone 
in  the  moonlit  portal  breathing  in  the  roses,  and 
still  we  did  not  meet  each  other's  eyes.  But  when 
there  was  at  last  no  excuse  for  our  waiting  there 
longer  I  looked  up  at  him  shamefacedly  enough. 

"Pelleas,"  I  faced  the  truth,  but  solemnly  lest  he 
should  imagine  that  I  was  not  filled  with  regret  at 
our  neglect,  "Pelleas,  we  forgot  our  golden  wedding." 

"But  there  has  been  a  golden  wedding  all  the 
same,"  said  Pelleas. 

However,  in  fear  of  what  the  balcony  of  roses 
would  think  of  our  defection,  we  stepped  out  there 
for  a  moment  on  our  way  upstairs.  And  there  Pel- 
leas  said  over  something  that  is  a  kind  of  bridal 
song  for  a  Golden  Wedding:  — 

"  My  own,  confirm  me !     If  I  tread 
This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 
To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 
To  an  age  so  blessed  that  by  its  side 
Youth  seems  the  waste  instead !  " 

We  do  not  think  that  the  balcony  itself  can  have 
agreed  with  this,  because  it  was  a  moon  balcony, 
made  for  youthful  lovers.  But  roses  are  like  a 
chorus,  explaining  what  is;  and  no  one  can  persuade 
us  that  these  failed  to  understand. 


XV 

THE   WEDDING 

TOWARD  the  end  of  July  we  found  that  the  lodge 
at  Little  Rosemont  was  to  be  vacant  for  a  month  or 
two  and  Pelleas  rented  it,  furnished,  from  the  agent; 
and  we  took  Nichola  and  moved  down  the  length  of 
the  gravel  to  the  littlest  house  in  the  world,  set  in 
the  littlest  garden.  There  we  were  established  three 
days  and  more  before  Avis  and  Lawrence  were  ex 
pected  home. 

We  had  merely  crossed  the  garden  from  the  great 
house,  and  yet  life  in  the  little  house  seemed  another 
matter,  as  if  a  harp  were  heard  in  a  room  instead  of 
in  an  open  field.  We  felt  less  professionally  alive 
and  more  free  to  live.  It  was  as  if,  Pelleas  said, 
we  were  reading  a  poem  rather  for  the  exquisite 
meaning  than  for  the  exquisite  rhythm. 

There  was  another  reason  why  the  lodge  invited  us. 
Though  it  was  nearly  August,  its  tiny  garden,  walled 
round  with  a  half-moon  of  hedge,  was  rich  with 
roses  as  if,  Pelleas  said,  for  an  after-meeting  of 
certain  Junes.  For  the  lodge  garden  had  been  set 
with  monthly  roses,  those  prodigals  of  giving,  and 

291 


292  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

there  Chinese  roses,  Bengal  roses,  Giant  of  Battles 
and  Cloth  of  Gold  rioted  about  a  Hundred-leaved 
rose  from  the  Caucasus  and  that  week  they  were  all 
ripe  with  bloom. 

That  first  morning  as  we  stepped  on  the  porch  was 
a  kind  of  greeting,  as  intimate  and  personal  as  a  nod. 
Pelleas  and  I  stood  in  the  garden  with  the  sun,  as  I 
believe,  slanting  madly  in  every  direction  and  butter 
flies  vanishing  against  the  blue.  At  all  events,  that 
is  as  I  soberly  recall  the  day;  and  yet  it  is  the  day 
which  we  remember  as  our  one  offence  against  love. 
It  was  the  one  time  in  our  life  that  we  said  of  two 
lovers  in  whom  we  believed:  "Are  we  sure  that 
they  are  right?"  instead  of  our  usual:  "Let  them 
be  married  to-day!"  I  can  hardly  credit  my  own 
feint  at  heartlessness. 

We  went  across  the  strip  of  terrace  with  a  pleasure 
that  was  like  the  pleasure  of  beginnings.  In  the  cen 
ter  of  the  garden  was  a  little  pool  for  water  flowers 
and  there  we  set  the  fountain  free  in  the  sheer  de 
light  of  bringing  about  all  the  liberty  possible;  and 
we  watched  the  scarlet  tanagers  bathing  in  the 
trickling  outlet  beside  the  Hundred-leaved  rose. 
And  so  we  came  at  last  to  the  arbour  in  a  green 
corner  of  the  wall,  and  in  its  doorway  we  stood  still 
with  the  reasonable  impression  that  we  were  think 
ing  what  we  seemed  to  see. 

On  a  bench  beneath  a  window  where  the  roses 


THE  WEDDING  293 

made  an  oval  open  to  the  garden  sat  a  girl.  At  first, 
save  the  shining  of  her  hair,  I  saw  only  that  she  had 
beside  her  a  little  traveling  bag  and,  also  beside  her,  a 
fine,  manly  boy  of  not  a  day  more  than  twenty-two. 
She  was  crying  a  little  and  he  was  attempting  with 
adorable  awkwardness  to  comfort  her.  At  first 
glance  the  most  rational  explanation  was  that  they 
were  run-away  sprites  from  some  neighbouring  gob 
lin  settlement,  and  Pelleas  and  I  were  making  a 
sympathetic  effort  to  withdraw  when  they  looked 
up  and  saw  us. 

Lo,  with  a  little  traveling  bag  between  them,  there 
were  Lisa  and  Eric. 

Almost  before  I  grasped  the  import  of  this  I  hur 
ried  forward  and  took  Lisa  in  my  arms.  In  all 
possible  affairs  I  firmly  believe  that  the  kiss  should 
come  first  and  the  explanation  afterward. 

"But  it  is  Lisa!"  I  cried.  "Pelleas,  it  is  Lisa 
and  Eric.  Wherever  have  you  come  from,  dear 
heart?" 

The  story  was  out  in  one  burst  of  courage  with  the 
tears  so  near,  so  near. 

"I  came  from  Chynmere,"  she  said;  "Uncle 
Dudley  and  I  are  still  at  the  Wortleys',  you  know  — 
that  is,  Uncle  Dudley  is  there.  I  —  I  ran  away 
from  the  Hall  this  m-morning.  I  —  I  eloped.  I  — 
Eric  —  we  are  going  to  be — " 

Of  course  the  rest  was  luminously  clear. 


294  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

"Dear  heart,"  I  cried,  "then  what  in  this  world 
are  you  crying  for?" 

Crying.  In  the  midst  of  one's  elopement  on  a 
glad  morning  with  the  sun  slanting  in  every  direc 
tion  and  butterflies  vanishing  against  the  blue. 

"At  all  events,"  said  young  Eric  Chartres,  with 
the  most  charmingly  abashed  smile, "  Pm  not  crying." 

Bit  by  bit  this  logical  climax  of  the  Summer's 
situation  was  imparted  to  us  —  indeed,  Pelleas 
and  I  had  already  secretly  prophesied  it.  For  Dud 
ley  Manners  to  have  charge  of  little  Lisa  at  all  was 
sufficiently  absurd ;  but  for  him  with  his  middle- 
aged  worldliness  to  have  in  keeping  her  love  story 
was  not  to  be  borne.  Lisa  and  Eric  had  been 
betrothed  since  Spring  and  in  those  two  months 
Dudley  Manners'  objection  on  the  score  of  their 
youth  had  not  been  to  any  extent  outgrown.  More 
over,  Lisa  explained  tremulously,  Uncle  Dudley 
had  lately  given  out  that  she  had  not  yet  "seen  the 
world."  Therefore  he  had  taken  passage  for  her 
and  a  Miss  Constance  Wortley,  a  governess  cousin 
at  Chynmere  Hall  —  elderly  and  an  authority  on 
plant  life  in  Alaska  —  and  they  were  to  go  abroad 
to  see  the  world  for  two  years ;  and  Eric  was  of  course 
to  be  left  behind. 

"Two  years,"  Lisa  said  impressively,  with  the 
usual  accent  of  two  eternities;  "we  were  to  go  to  the 
north  of  Africa  to  watch  the  musk  roses  bloom  and 


THE  WEDDING  295 

to  the  Mediterranean  to  look  for  rosemary.  Uncle 
Dudley  thinks  that  would  be  seeing  the  world.  So 
Eric  came  this  morning  early  and  I  slipped  down  and 
met  him  before  any  one  was  up.  And  we  came 
here.  I  told  Eric,"  Lisa  confessed,  "what  you  told 
me  about  Cornelia  Emmeline  Ayres'  elopement. 
And  we  knew  you  would  both  understand." 

Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other  swiftly.  Nature 
is  very  just. 

"But  what  are  you  crying  for,  dear?"  I  puzzled 
then;  "you  are  never  sorry  you  came  ?" 

"Ah,  but,"  said  Lisa  sadly,  "I  think  that  Miss 
Wortley  really  wants  to  go  to  Europe  and  wait  about 
for  things  to  bloom.  And  now  of  course  she  can't. 
And  then  they  say — Uncle  Dudley  says — that  I  can't 
make  Eric  happy  until  I  know  something  of  life." 

"My  dear,"  said  I  from  the  superiority  of  my 
seventy  years,  "I  don't  know  about  the  rest.  But 
that  much  I  am  positive  is  nonsense." 

"Isn't  loving  somebody  knowing  all  about  life?" 
Lisa  asked  simply. 

"It  is,"  Pelleas  and  I  answered  together. 

"  Ah,"  Lisa  cried,  brightening,  "  I  said  you  would 
understand.  Didn't  I,  Eric  ? " 

Eric  raptly  assented.  I  had  always  liked  the  boy. 
His  whole  mind  was  on  Lisa  and  yet,  though  from 
the  edges  of  his  consciousness,  he  had  an  exquisite 
manner. 


296          LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

"At  all  events,"  said  I  when  presently  I  left  Lisa 
in  the  flowered  chintz  guest  room,  "let  us  lunch 
first  and  be  married  afterward.  Whatever  happens 
you  must  have  one  of  Nichola's  salads." 

I  hurried  downstairs  longing  to  find  Pelleas  and 
to  plan  with  him  how  we  were  to  bring  it  all  about; 
but  Pelleas  was  still  in  conference  with  that  young 
lover  and  they  were  walking  up  and  down  the  path, 
heads  bent,  brows  grave,  as  if  the  matter  were  ac 
tually  one  requiring  the  weightiest  consideration.  I 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  hall  window  to  watch  them, 
with  all  my  heart  longing  to  cry  out:  Never  mind 
the  reasons.  Look  at  the  roses.  It  is  perfectly 
easy  to  see  what  they  think.  . 

Instead  I  went  to  the  kitchen  to  say  a  word  about 
luncheon.  And  the  day  was  so  sunny  and  the  guests 
at  luncheon  were  so  to  my  liking  and  my  heart  was 
so  full  of  their  story  that,  as  well  as  for  a  more  prac 
tical  reason,  I  was  obliged  to  tell  something  of  it  to 
Nichola. 

Nichola  was  washing  green  leaves,  and  these, 
tender  and  curled  in  her  withered  hands,  were  as 
incongruous  as  a  flush  I  had  once  detected  on  her 
withered  cheek.  In  her  starched  print  gown  Nichola 
looked  that  morning  like  some  one  cut  from  stiff 
paper. 

"Nichola,"  said  I,  "I  think  we  may  have  a  wedding 
here  this  afternoon." 


THE  WEDDING  297 

Instantly  her  little  deep-set  eyes  became  quick- 
lidded  with  disapproval. 

"It  is  by  no  means  certain/9  I  pursued,  "but  we 
hope  to  have  it  here.  And,"  I  advanced  delicately, 
"could  you  possibly  have  ready  for  us  something 
frozen  and  delicious,  Nichola  ?  With  little  cakes  ? 
Then  you  need  make  no  dessert  at  all  for  dinner." 

Nichola  looked  at  me  doubtfully,  pulling  down 
her  brown  print  sleeves  over  her  brown  wrists. 

"Che!"  said  she,  "if  it  is  a  runaway  match  I  cannot 
do  this." 

I  looked  at  Nichola  in  amazement.  I  was  used  to 
her  denials;  these  were  merely  the  form  that  her 
emotion  took.  I  was  used  to  her  prejudices;  these 
were  her  only  pastime.  But  I  had  never  before 
heard  her  offer  an  objection  which  seemed  to  have  a 
reason. 

"Why  not  —  but  why  not,  Nichola?"  I  cried. 

"I  had  a  sister,"  Nichola  explained  unexpectedly; 
and  in  all  these  forty  years  and  more  I  had  never 
before  heard  her  sister's  name  upon  her  lips.  "She 
went  quietly,  quietly  to  San  Rafael  an'  a  priest 
married  her  to  Beppo  an'  they  came  home  for  supper. 
But  no  good  came.  Beppo  was  drown'  from  his 
boat  within  the  year  an'  with  him  a  net  full  of  fine 
fish.  If  it  is  a  runaway  match  I  cannot  do  this.  No 
good  will  come." 

"But,  Nichola,"  I  urged  reasonably,  "you  would 


298    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

not  be  blamed.  Though  to  be  sure  I  may  ask  you 
to  telephone  to  Mr.  Didbin,  that  young  rector  at 
Inglese.  But  you  would  not  be  blamed.  And  to 
make  cream  sherbet,  that  would  be  no  part  of  the 
ceremony.  And  little  cakes  — " 

"No  good  will  come!"  cried  Nichola  shrilly;  "for 
the  love  of  heaven,  have  I  not  said  how  Beppo  was 
drown'  with  all  his  fish  ?  It  is  not  holy." 

"Nichola,"  I  asked  with  dignity,  "will  you  be  sure 
to  have  a  particularly  delicious  luncheon  to-day  ? 
And  will  you  make  for  dessert  to-night  a  sherbet,  with 
little  cakes,  and  have  it  ready  in  the  afternoon?" 

I  went  away  with  a  false  majesty  covering  my 
certainty  that  Nichola  would  pay  not  the  slightest 
heed  to  my  injunction.  Nichola  is  in  everything  a 
frightful  nonconformist,  from  habit ;  if  to  this  were 
really  superadded  a  reason  I  could  not  tell  what 
might  happen,  but  I  felt  sadly  sure  that  Lisa  and 
Eric  would  have  for  their  wedding  feast  afternoon 
tea  and  nothing  more. 

"Nichola!"  said  I  from  the  doorway,  "what 
made  you  think  that  they  had  run  away?" 

"Che!"  said  Nichola  grimly,  "I  saw  them  come 
in  the  gate.  Have  I  lived  these  seventy  years  always, 
always  with  my  two  eyes  shut  ?" 

As  I  hurried  away  I  marveled  at  that.  Once 
Nichola  had  unexpectedly  proved  to  me  that  she 
has  wishes  and  even  dreams.  Was  it  possible  that 


THE  WEDDING  299 

she  knew  a  lover  when  she  saw  one  ?  After  all,  that 
is  a  rare  gift. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Pelleas  met  me  with  a 
manner  of  nothing  but  gravity. 

"  Pelleas  ! "  I  cried,  "  isn't  it  delightful  ?  Wasn't  it 
providential  that  they  came  to  us  ?" 

"Etarre,"  said  Pelleas  solemnly,  "I'm  not  at  all 
sure  that  we  oughtn't  to  send  them  straight  back  to 
Chynmere  Hall." 

If  Pelleas  had  proposed  persuading  Lisa  and  Eric 
to  forget  each  other  I  could  have  been  no  more 
amazed.  Pelleas,  who  always  pretends  enormous 
unconcern  in  all  romance  and  secretly  works  with 
all  his  might  on  the  side  of  the  adventure,  Pelleas, 
to  speak  in  austere  fashion  of  sending  two  lovers 
home.  What  did  he  mean?  And  did.  he  think 
that  a  course  in  the  flora  of  Europe  would  make 
anybody  any  happier  whatever  ? 

"Pelleas,"  I  cried,  "how  can  you?  When  we 
are  so  happy?" 

"But  you  know  we  didn't  elope,"  Pelleas  argued. 

"Wouldn't  you  have  loved  me  if  we  had?"  I 
inquired  reasonably. 

"Of  course  I  would,"  cried  Pelleas,  "but—" 

"Ah,  well,  then,"  I  finished  triumphantly,  "it's 
the  same  way  with  them." 

I  recall  a  distinct  impression  that  I  had  the  better 
of  the  argument, 


300    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

"But  you  see,"  Pelleas  persisted  gently,  "after  all 
they  are  so  appallingly  young,  Etarre.  And  if 
Dudley  Manners  were  to  be  angry  and  if  he  were 
to  disinherit  Lisa,  and  so  on  — " 

"As  for  things  going  wrong,"  said  I,  "can  anything 
be  so  wrong  as  for  two  who  love  each  other  to  be 
separated  ?" 

"No,"  Pelleas  admitted  justly,  "nothing  can  be. 
All  the  same  — " 

"Pelleas!"  I  cried  in  despair,  "we  could  have 
that  young  rector  over  here,  and  they  could  be  mar 
ried  in  the  little  round  drawing-room  —  or  in  the 
rose  arbour  —  or  in  the  garden  at  large.  Think  of 
it  —  cream  sherbet  and  little  cakes  afterward  and 
us  for  parents  and  wedding  party  and  all.  Then  you 
and  I  could  go  straight  to  Dudley  Manners  at  Chyn- 
mere  and  tell  him  how  it  was,  and  I  know  he  would 
forgive  them.  Pelleas !  Can  you  really  think  of 
that  dear  child  spending  two  years  with  an  authority 
on  plant  life  in  Alaska  ? " 

"  Instead  of  going  to  him  afterward,"  said  Pelleas 
boldly  then,  "suppose  you  and  I  leave  here  after 
luncheon  and  drive  to  Chynmere  and  make  Dudley 
Manners  consent  ?  And  bring  him  and  Miss  Con 
stance  Wortley  back  to  the  wedding!"  he  finished 
with  triumphant  daring. 

"And  not  be  married  secretly  ?"  I  said  lingeringly, 
as  if  the  secret  wedding  were  our  own. 


THE  WEDDING  301 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Pelleas,  "at  all  events  we  won't 
tell  him  on  any  account  where  they  are." 

So  it  was  settled,  and  when  presently  we  four  went 
out  to  our  tiny  dining-room  courage  and  gayety  were 
in  the  air.  Our  dining-room  was  white  and  dull 
blue  with  a  wreath  of  roses  outside  every  window 
and  a  bowl  of  roses  on  the  table.  And  if  Nichola 
considered  it  reprehensible  to  assist  at  a  "runaway 
match"  she  manifestly  had  no  such  scruple  about 
the  luncheon  to  precede  it  for  she  set  before  us 
the  daintiest  dishes.  I  could  see  the  while  how 
her  little,  quick-lidded  eyes  were  fixed  disapprov 
ingly  on  the  young  lovers;  but  then  Nichola's 
eyes  disapprove  of  the  very  moon  in  the  sky. 
I  wondered,  as  I  looked  at  Lisa  in  the  noon  of 
her  fresh  young  beauty,  and  at  Eric,  so  adoringly 
in  love,  how  Nichola  could  even  pretend  to  dis 
approval  at  sight  of  them;  and  if  she  had  been 
any  one  but  Nichola  I  would  have  suspected 
her  conversion,  for  of  her  own  will  she  served 
our  coffee  in  the  rose  arbour.  Whereupon  Pelleas 
and  I  became  absorbingly  interested  in  the  progress 
of  some  slips  which  had  been  in  the  ground  about 
six  hours  and  we  wandered  away  to  look  at  them, 
cups  in  hand,  and  left  those  two  to  take  their 
coffee  in  the  arbour  —  in  memory  of  a  certain  day 
when  we  had  been  left  to  drink  our  coffee  alone. 
And  when  we  came  back  we  scrupulously  refrained 


302  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

from  looking  whether  they  had  so  much  as  sipped  a 
thimbleful. 

Then,  feeling  deliciously  guilty,  we  announced  to 
our  guests  that  we  had  an  errand  which  would  keep 
us  away  for  an  hour.  And  that  if  it  should  seem  best 
there  would  be  ample  time  for  the  wedding  on  our 
return.  And  that  at  all  events  they  must  decide 
whether  they  would  be  married  in  the  round  drawing- 
room,  or  in  the  rose  arbour,  or  in  the  garden  at 
large.  Also,  not  knowing  what  warning  or  summons 
we  might  wish  hurriedly  to  send,  I  added  to  Lisa :  — 

"And  if  the  telephone  rings,  dear,  you  would 
better  answer  it  yourself.  For  it  may  be  Cupid  and 
ministers  of  grace.  No  one  can  tell." 

"O,  Aunt  Etarre,"  said  Lisa  prettily,  "this  is 
perfect  of  you.  Isn't  it,  Eric?" 

The  way  that  Eric  shook  the  hand  of  Pelleas  three 
times  on  the  way  to  the  gate  might  have  indicated 
to  some  that  he  thought  it  was. 

Yet  there  we  were,  hastening  out  in  the  world  to 
find  a  possible  obstacle  to  all  that  innocent  joy. 
Never  before  had  we  been  guilty  of  such  disaffection 
or  even  of  prudence  in  such  a  cause. 

"Pelleas,  O  Pelleas,"  I  said  as  we  hurried  down 
the  lane  for  a  carriage,  "but  suppose  it  doesn't  turn 
out  as  we  think  ?  Suppose  Dudley  Manners  is 
furious,  suppose  he  guesses  where  they  are  and 
suppose  —  ?" 


THE  WEDDING  303 

"Pooh,"  said  Pelleas  in  splendid  disdain.  "Dud 
ley  Manners.  Thirty  years  ago  I  took  a  polo 
championship  away  from  him  when  he  was  looking 
directly  at  me." 

And  it  needed  no  more  than  this  and  the  sun  in 
the  lane  to  reassure  me. 

From  a  warlike-looking  farmer,  a  friend  of  ours 
living  at  the  lane's  end,  we  got  a  low  phaeton  and  a 
tall  horse  which  we  had  made  occasion  to  use  before. 
The  drive  to  Chynmere  occupied  hardly  half  an 
hour,  and  when  we  saw  the  tower  of  the  Hall  above 
the  chestnuts  and  before  us  the  high  English  wall 
of  the  park  cutting  the  roadside  sward  we  looked  at 
each  other  in  sudden  breathless  abashment.  After 
all,  Lisa  was  Dudley  Manners'  ward,  not  ours. 
After  all,  two  years  in  Europe  are  commonly  accepted 
as  desirable  for  a  girl  of  twenty.  In  that  black 
hour  as  we  drew  rein  at  the  lordly  entrance  of  Chyn 
mere  Hall  itself  I  felt  myself  obliged  to  call  up  the 
essential  horror  of  the  situation. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said,  "remember:  they  love  each 
other  as  much  as  ever  we  did.  And  remember: 
two  years  with  an  authority  on  plant  life  in  Alaska." 

"Monstrous,"  said  Pelleas  firmly. 

On  which  we  went  bravely  up  the  steps. 

Our  enterprise  was  doomed  to  receive  a  blow, 
crushing  and  apparently  mortal.  Neither  Mr. 
Dudley  Manners  nor  Miss  Constance  Wortley  was 


304    LOVES  OF  PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

at  home.  They  had  gone  away  in  different  di 
rections,  the  man  thought,  immediately  after  lun 
cheon. 

We  went  back  tremblingly  to  the  low  phaeton  and 
the  tall  horse. 

"O,  Pelleas,"  I  said  in  despair.  "And  whatever 
shall  we  do  now  ?  Those  poor  little  people." 

Pelleas  looked  at  his  watch. 

"We  can  take  an  hour,"  he  said.  "We'll  give 
Dudley  Manners  or  the  botanical  lady  an  hour  to  get 
back,  and  we'll  call  again." 

"O,  Pelleas,"  I  said,  "and  if  they  aren't  there  then 
let  us  go  home  and  be  married  anyway  — "  quite  as 
if  the  wedding  were  our  own. 

But  Pelleas  shook  his  head. 

"Dear,"  he  said,  "we  mustn't,  you  know.  We 
really  mustn't.  It  wouldn't  do  in  the  very  least." 

"Pelleas,"  said  I  irrelevantly,  "we  were  just  their 
age  when  we  were  married." 

"So  we  were,"  said  Pelleas,  and  drew  the  tall  horse 
to  a  walk  in  the  sun  of  the  long  green  road,  and  we 
fell  to  remembering. 

Any  one  who  has  ever  by  any  chance  remembered 
knows  how  sweet  the  pastime  may  be.  Sometimes 
I  think  that  heaven  must  be  a  place  where  some  of 
the  things  that  have  been  will  be  again.  No  wonder 
that  as  we  drove  on  our  delayed  mission  for  those  two 
who  sat  expectant  and  adoring  in  our  rose  garden, 


THE  WEDDING  305 

a  throng  of  phantoms  of  delight  came  about  us  and 
held  us  very  near.  No  wonder  that  the  tall  horse, 
obeying  his  own  will,  took  this  road  and  that  road, 
leading  us  farther  and  farther  in  those  fragrant  ways 
until  at  last  where  the  highway  ran  through  a  little 
hollow  at  the  foot  of  a  forbidding  hill  he  stopped 
altogether,  minded  to  take  the  tops  of  some  tender 
green,  cool  in  the  shade.  I  recall  the  ditches  of 
yellow  sweet  clover  and  the  drone  of  the  honeybees. 

The  hollow  was  on  the  edge  of  Chynmere  village. 
Across  the  green  we  saw  the  parish  church,  white  in 
its  elms  and  alders.  I  noted  absently  that  a  smart 
trap  and  a  satin  horse  waited  outside  the  iron  fence 
and  that  several  figures  were  emerging  from  the 
chapel  door  where  the  white-haired  rector  lingered. 

"We  can  ask  those  people,"  suggested  Pelleas, 
"for  the  shortest  cut  back  to  the  Hall.  I'm  afraid 
the  time  is  getting  on." 

He  gathered  up  the  lines  and  drove  leisurely 
across  the  springing  turf.  A  song  sparrow  was 
pouring  out  its  little  heart  from  the  marsh  land  be 
yond  the  church  and  the  sounds  of  the  afternoon 
were  growing  every  moment  more  beloved.  Every 
thing  was  luring  to  delight,  and  here  were  Pelleas  and 
I  alone  of  all  the  world  —  save  Dudley  Manners  and 
this  Miss  Wortley  —  seeking  to  postpone  a  great 
happiness. 

"Dudley  Manners,"  said  I  out  of  the  fullness  of 


306  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

my  heart,  "must  be  a  kind  of  ogre.  And  as  for  this 
Miss  Wortley,  I  dare  say  she  is  a  regular  Nichola." 

At  this  Pelleas  said  something  so  softly  that  I  did 
not  hear  and  drew  rein  beside  the  smart  trap  in 
which  a  man  and  a  woman  coming  from  the  church 
had 'just  taken  their  places.  And  when  I  looked 
up  I  saw  the  man  turning  toward  us  a  face  so  smiling 
and  so  deliciously  abashed  that  it  bewildered  my 
recognition,  until  — 

"Dudley  Manners!"  cried  Pelleas.  "The  very 
man  I  am  searching  the  county  for." 

And  to  this  Dudley  Manners  said :  — 

"I  say,  Pelleas — you're  a  bit  late  —  but  how  in 
the  world  did  you  guess?" 

"Guess?"  said  Pelleas,  puzzled.     "Guess  you?" 

"Guess  where  —  I  should  say  guess  what.  Did 
you  know  I  telephoned?"  said  Dudley  Manners  all 
at  once;  and  then  having  leaped  from  the  trap  and 
bent  above  my  hand  he  turned  to  the  lady  who  had 
sat  beside  him,  an  exquisite  elderly  woman  with  a 
lapful  of  fresia.  "This  is  Mrs.  Manners,"  he  said 
with  charming  pride.  "The  fact  is,  we've  just  been 
married  in  the  chapel  there." 

At  this  my  heart  leaped  to  a  thousand  tunes  all 
carrying  one  happy  air. 

"You  see,"  he  was  explaining,  looking  up  at  us 
with  an  eagerness  almost  boyish  in  his  transfigured 
face,  "we  —  we  decided  rather  suddenly.  And  we 


THE  WEDDING  307 

telephoned  over  to  you  an  hour  ago  to  get  you  to 
come  and  stand  by  us  — " 

"Telephoned  to  us  —  at  the  lodge?"  I  cried  in 
dismay.  "O,  who  came  to  the  telephone  ?" 

Dudley  Manners  looked  as  if  he  wondered  what 
that  had  to  do  with  his  happiness. 

"I  really  don't  know/'  he  said.  "The  voice  was 
familiar.  I  thought  at  first  it  might  have  been  you, 
Etarre.  And. then  they  cut  us  off;  and  then  a 
terrible  voice  thundered  that  neither  of  you  was 
there.  How  did  you  know  what  we  wanted?"  he 
went  back  to  his  text. 

But  as  for  me  I  could  think  only  of  the  terror  of 
those  poor  little  people,  and  I  could  guess  that  Nichola 
must  some  way  have  come  to  the  rescue.  I  knew  her 
voice  over  the  telephone,  like  all  three  voices  of 
Cerberus,  saying,  "Not  at  home." 

"Dudley,"  said  I  faintly,  " Pelleas  —  tell  him. 
Ask  him." 

I  gave  Dudley  Manners  my  hand  and  got  to  the 
ground,  trembling,  and  crossed  to  the  trap  where 
the  lady  was  so  tranquilly  seated,  with  the  fresia  in 
her  lap.  I  said  insane,  unremembered  vagaries  to 
her,  all  the  time  listening  to  that  murmur  beside  the 
phaeton  and  knowing  that  the  fate  of  our  little  lovers 
was  being  decided  then  and  there.  And  suddenly  it 
came  to  me  that  the  face  in  which  I  was  looking  was 
uncommonly  sweet  and  kindly  and  that  inasmuch 


308  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

as  she  was  Mrs.  Manners  and  a  bride  I  might  give 
her  my  confidence  and  win  her  heart  for  my  hope. 
But  when  I  turned  boldly  to  tell  her  something  of  the 
charming  case  she  was  holding  out  to  me  some  sprays 
of  her  fresia. 

"Won't  you  have  this?"  she  said.  "It  is  a  very- 
rare  species." 

And  then  I  knew  her  and  I  marveled  that  I  had 
not  understood  at  once.  This  —  this  would  be  no 
other  than  Miss  Constance  Wortley,  the  botanical 
lady  herself.  And  in  the  same  instant  to  quicken 
my  assurance  Dudley  Manners,  laughing  deliciously, 
called  softly  to  her :  — 

"Constance  —  Constance.  It's  all  right.  Lisa 
and  Eric  are  bound  to  be  married  to-day  and  I  fancy 
you'll  have  to  take  me  to  Europe  alone !" 

Ah,  such  a  moment  of  tender,  abashed  laughter 
and  open  rejoicing.  And  of  course  Pelleas  and  I 
opened  our  hearts  and  told  them  where  the  lovers 
were,  and  who  had  doubtless  answered  the  telephone 
at  the  lodge.  And  forthwith  we  invited  them  to 
drive  with  us  to  the  wedding,  and  to  have  tea  in 
the  garden.  And  so  it  was  settled,  and  away  we 
went  down  the  golden  road  dipping  between  deep, 
deep  green,  and  boldly  past  the  tower  of  Chyn- 
mere  Hall  and  through  the  gracious  land  of  after 
noon  back  to  Little  Rosemont  lodge,  bearing  the 
glad  tidings  to  usher  in  the  glad  event.  Tea  or 


THE  WEDDING  309 

cream  sherbet,  what  a  world  this  is  always  turning 
out  to  be. 

"We  will  go  in  and  explain,"  I  cried  —  how  I 
love  to  explain  when  best  things  are  true  — "and  then, 
Pelleas,  you  must  hurry  over  in  the  phaeton  for  Mr. 
Didbin,  and  bring  him  back  with  you,  no  matter  what. 
And  then  we  will  be  married  —  in  the  drawing-room 
or  the  rose  arbour  or  the  garden  at  large." 

I  love  to  recall  the  pleasure  of  that  alighting  at  the 
lodge  gates,  of  going  within,  of  looking  across  the  roses 
for  the  two  whom  we  were  to  surprise.  I  caught  a 
flutter  of  white  in  the  arbour  and,  palpitating,  I  led 
the  way  past  the  pool  and  the  fountain  and  the 
trickling  outlet  .where  a  scarlet  wing  flashed  into 
flight  and  past  the  Hundred-leaved  rose,  to  the  turn 
in  the  path  that  led  to  the  arbour. 

Then  without  warning,  outside  the  arbour  en 
trance  there  seemed  to  rise  from  the  gravel  the 
amazing  figure  of  Nichola  —  Nichola  in  her  best 
black  gown  and  embroidered  white  apron  and  an 
unmistakable  manner  of  threatening  us  with  folded 
arms.  She  stood  squarely  before  us,  looking  at  Pel- 
leas  and  me  with  all  the  disapproval  of  those  little, 
deep-set,  quick-lidded  eyes. 

"Now,  then,"  she  said  grimly,  "go  back.  The 
weddins  on" 

In  the  same  instant,  through  the  low-arched  door 
way  of  the  arbour,  I  saw  Lisa  and  Eric  and  the  ques- 


3io  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

tioning,  distressed  face  of  the  Reverend  Arthur 
Didbin. 

Nichola  followed  my  glance. 

"It's  none  o'  his  doin',"  she  explained  shrilly. 
"It's  my  doin'.  We  knew  who  was  on  the  tele 
phone,  well  enough.  She  answered  it  herself,"  she 
explained,  with  a  jerk  of  her  shoulders  toward  the 
arbour,  "an*  near  fainted  in  my  arms.  She  knew 
him.  An'  we  knew  what  was  like  to  happen  when 
he  got  here.  I  went  quickly,  quickly  for  the  min 
ister  an'  here  he  is.  You  must  not  interfere.  It  is 
not  holy ! " 

Nichola,  that  grim  old  woman,  as  the  ally  and  not 
the  adversary  of  Love  !  But  I  had  no  time  to  marvel 
at  the  death  of  either  prejudice  or  reason. 

"Nichola  — but  Nichola!"  I  cried  breathlessly, 
"we  haven't  come  to  interfere.  We  don't  want  to 
interfere.  We  were  going  to  send  for  Mr.  Didbin 
ourselves." 

At  that  Nichola  drew  back,  but  doubtfully,  with 
mutterings.  And  she  did  not  disappear  until  little 
Lisa,  having  seen  the  radiant  faces  of  our  bride  and 
groom,  suddenly  understood  and  ran  to  them.  And 
as  for  Dudley  Manners,  one  would  have  said  that  his 
dearest  wish  had  been  to  see  Lisa  married  to  Eric 
Chartres;  and  as  for  Mrs.  Manners,  with  her  kind 
eyes,  all  her  fresia  scattered  in  the  path  as  she 
kissed  Lisa,  I  think  that  she  cannot  even  have  no- 


THE   WEDDING  311 

ticed  our  Hundred-leaved  rose  or  cared  whether 
ft  had  come  to  us  from  its  native  Caucasus  or  her 
own  Alaska. 

'  I  protest  that  I  cannot  now  remember  whether 
Lisa  and  Eric  were  married  by  the  fountain  or  in 
the  rose  arbour  or  in  the  garden  at  large.  But  I 
know  that  it  must  have  been  out  of  doors,  for  I  re 
member  the  roses  and  how  the  sun  was  slanting  madly 
in  every  direction  and  butterflies  were  vanishing 
against  the  blue. 

And  when  it  was  over  and  we  sat  in  the  gracious 
afternoon  talking  joyously  of  what  had  happened 
and  of  how  strangely  it  was  come  about  and  of  how 
heavenly  sweet  the  world  is,  there  came  Nichola  from 
the  house  bearing  to  the  table  in  the  little  arbour  a 
tray  unmistakably  laden  with  her  cream  sherbet  and 
with  mounds  of  her  delicate  cake. 

"Nichola  I"  I  cried  as  I  hurried  to  her.  "You  did 
make  it?" 

Nichola  looked  at  me  from  her  little  deep  eyes. 

"I  made  it,  yes,"  she  said,  "an*  that  was  why  I 
went  for  the  minister.  I'd  begun  it,  an'  I  wasn't 
going  to  have  it  wasted.  It  would  not  be  holy." 

It  is  true  that  Nichola  can  use  the  same  argument 
on  both  sides  of  a  question.  But  I  have  never  been 
able  to  see  the  slightest  objection  to  that  if  only  the 
question  is  settled  properly  at  last. 


XVI 

"SO  THE  CARPENTER  ENCOURAGED  THE  GOLDSMITH  " 

THEY  were  all  to  spend  Christmas  eve  with  us, 
our  nearest  and  dearest.  On  Christmas  day  even 
the  kinfolk  farthest  removed,  both  as  to  kin  and 
to  kind,  have  a  right  by  virtue  of  red  holly  to 
one's  companionship.  But  Christmas  eve  is  for 
the  meeting  of  one's  dearest  and  they  had  all 
been  summoned  to  our  house:  The  Chartres,  the 
Cleatams,  Miss  Willie  Lillieblade,  Hobart  Eddy, 
Avis  and  Lawrence,  and  Enid  and  David  and 
the  baby.  As  for  Viola  and  Our  Telephone  and 
Lisa  and  Eric  they  were  all  in  Naples  and  I  dare 
say  looking  in  each  other's  eyes  as  if  Vesuvius  were 
a  mere  hill. 

There  was  to  be  with  us  one  other  —  Eunice  Wells, 
who  was  lame.  She  was  in  New  York  on  the 
pleasant  business  of  receiving  a  considerable  legacy 
from  a  relative,  a  friend  of  ours,  whose  will,  though 
Eunice  had  previously  been  unknown  to  Pelleas 
and  me,  endeared  her  to  us. 

"To  my  beloved  niece,  Eunice  Wells,"  the  testa 
ment  went,  "  I  give  and  bequeath  This  and  That  for 

312 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH  313 

her  piety,  her  love  of  learning  and  her  incomparable 
courage  in  bearing  sorrow." 

Was  not  that  the  living  May  breathing  in  a  rigid 
and  word-bound  instrument  of  the  law  ?  And  what 
a  picture  of  Eunice  Wells.  Pelleas  and  I  had  sought 
her  out,  welcomed  her,  and  bidden  her  on  Christmas 
eve  to  dine  with  us  alone  and  to  grace  our  merry 
evening. 

At  five  o'clock  on  the  day  before  Christmas,  just 
as  Pelleas  and  I  rested  from  holly  hanging  and  were 
longing  for  our  tea,  Hobart  Eddy  was  announced.  I 
say  "announced"  because  we  usually  construe 
Nichola's  smile  at  our  drawing-room  door  to  mean 
Hobart  Eddy.  She  smiles  for  few  but  to  Hobart  she 
is  openly  complaisant,  unfolding  from  the  leather 
of  her  cheek  an  expression  of  real  benignity. 

"How  very  jolly  you  look,"  he  said,  as  we  sat  in 
the  ingle.  "Holly  over  the  blindfold  Hope  and  down 
the  curtains  and,  as  I  live,  mistletoe  on  the  sconces. 
Aunt  Etarre,  I  shall  kiss  you  from  sconce  to  sconce." 

"Do,"  said  I;  "of  late  Pelleas  is  grown  appall 
ingly  confident  of  my  single-minded  regard." 

"Alas,"  Hobart  said,  "nobody  wants  to  kiss  me 
for  myself  alone." 

On  which  he  put  back  his  head  and  sat  looking  up 
at  the  blindfold  Hope,  wreathed  with  holly.  And 
his  fine,  square  chin  without  threat  of  dimple,  and 
his  splendid,  clear-cut  face,  and  his  hand  drooping 


314  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND  ETARRE 

a  little  from  the  arm  of  his  chair  sent  me  back 
to  my  old  persistent  hope.  Heaven  had  manifestly 
intended  him  to  be  a  Young  Husband.  He  of 
all  men  should  have  been  sitting  before  his  own 
hearth  of  holly  and  later  making  ready  the  mor 
row's  Yule-tree  for  such  little  hearts  as  adore  Yule- 
trees.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Hobart  Eddy  looked  over  at  us  and, 
"I  say,  you  know,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  it 
is  all  for?" 

"The  holly?"  Pelleas  asked  unsuspectingly. 

"The  mistletoe  ?"  I  hazarded. 

"No,  no,"  said  Hobart  Eddy  with  simplicity, 
"everything." 

Pelleas  and  I  looked  at  each  other  almost  guiltily. 
Here  were  we  two,  always  standing  up  for  life  and 
promising  others  that  it  would  yield  good  things; 
and  yet  what  in  the  world  could  we  say  to  that  ques 
tion  of  Hobart's,  fairly  general  though  it  is:  "What 
is  it  all  for?" 

Pelleas  spoke  first,  as  became  the  more  philosoph 
ical. 

"It's  to  do  one's  best,  wouldn't  one  say  ?"  he  said, 
"and  to  let  the  rest  go." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  see,"  said  Hobart  Eddy,  talking  the 
primal  things  in  his  trim  staccato,  "  but  it's  so  deuced 
unnatural  not  to  know  why." 

"Yes,"  Pelleas  admitted,  "yes,  it   is   unnatural. 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH    315 

But  when  one  does  one's  worst  it  gets  more  unnatural 
than  ever." 

Hobart  Eddy  looked  critically  at  the  fire. 

"But,  Good  Lord,"  he  said  helplessly,  "suppose 
—  suppose  a  black  beetle  argues  that  way,  and  does 
his  best,  and  lives  to  a  good  old  beetle  age.  And 
suppose  another  black  beetle  gives  up  in  the  begin 
ning,  and  takes  some  morphine-for-beetles,  and  next 
minute  gets  crushed  by  a  watering  cart.  What 
then?" 

"But  I,"  said  Pelleas  with  admirable  dignity,  "am 
not  a  beetle." 

"But  confound  it,  sir,"  Hobart  said,  "I'm  afraid 
I  am.  That's  the  difference." 

"All  philosophical  arguments,"  Pelleas  observed, 
wrinkling  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  "  end  that  way.  But 
beetles  or  not,  doing  one's  best  is  the  only  way  out." 

"But  the  'best'  of  a  beetle — "  Hobart  shrugged. 

Then  I  spoke  out  with  conviction. 

"You,  for  example,  Hobart  Eddy,"  I  said,  "would 
be  a  perfect  husband." 

"Thanks,  dear  heart,"  he  replied,  "it's  a  common 
virtue,  that." 

"It's  very  uncommon,"  I  protested  stoutly;  "I  can 
think  of  no  one  besides  Pelleas  and  you  and  Wilfred 
and  Horace  and  Lawrence  and  David  and  Our  Tele 
phone  and  Eric  who  in  the  least  possess  it.  Hobart 
Eddy,  if  you  would  marry  — " 


3i 6  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

"Don't  tell  me,  Aunt  Etarre,"  he  said,  "that  a 
married  beetle  is  in  the  scheme  of  things  any  nearer 
the  solution  than  a  single  one.  Besides  — "  he  added 
and  stopped.  I  had  noted,  when  we  were  on  this 
not  infrequent  subject,  that  he  was  wont  to  say  this, 
and  stop;  and  when  he  did  so  my  heart  always  went 
a  thought  faster  than  my  reason :  What  if  he  did  love 
some  one  of  whom  we  had  never  guessed  ?  But  that 
I  dismissed  as  absurd;  for  in  that  case,  how  should 
she  not  love  him  ? 

"You  were  meant  by  heaven  to  be  a  husband,"  I 
muttered,  unconvinced,  "you  look  at  a  picture  on  the 
wall  as  if  you  were  saying:  'How  are  you  to-day, 
dear?'" 

"But  even  if  one  does  one's  best,  as  you  say," 
Hobart  went  on,  "it's  the  being  beaten  in  the  end 
that  annoys  me.  I  hate  the  certainty  of  being 
beaten  in  the  end.  I  can  throw  it  off  now  I'm 
young  —  comparatively  young.  But  look  at  'em 
pile  up :  Failures,  humiliations,  estrangements,  the 
beastly  little  stabs  at  you,  your  own  cursed  mis 
takes  —  why,  one  is  beaten  in  the  beginning,  for 
that  matter.  When  you're  young,  even  a  little 
young,  you  don't  know  that.  But  as  you  get 
older,  even  supposing  you  do  your  best,  you 
know  you're  beaten.  It's  deuced  unsportsmanlike 
of  somebody." 

I  looked  at  Pelleas  with  the  glance  that  means  an 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH    317 

alarm,  for  something  to  be  done  at  once.  He  knew; 
and  he  did  quite  what  I  had  hoped. 

"We  are  more  than  seventy,"  Pelleas  said  serenely, 
"and  we  re  not  beaten." 

"But  you  — "  Hobart  protested,  "you've  had  half 
the  world  at  your  feet.  You've  won  everything. 
You've  been  .  .  ."  and  so  on,  in  his  choicest  social 
hyperbole. 

"Hobart,"  Pelleas  said,  "Etarre  and  I  have  been 
married  for  fifty  years.  In  that  time  we  have  lost, 
year  after  year,  both  hopes  and  realities.  I  have 
seen  my  work  harshly  criticized  and  even  justly 
rejected.  One  year  we  had  hardly  a  centime  to  pay 
Nichola.  As  it  is,  we  escape  from  each  day  by 
way  of  the  dark  for  fear  the  next  will  find  us 
penniless.  We  lost  —  we  need  not  speak  of  that, 
but  you  know  how  our  little  boy  —  my  son  —  died 
before  his  first  birthday.  O,  do  you  think  .  .  . 
The  sorrows,  the  estrangements,  the  failures,  the 
ill-health,  the  little  stabs  at  us,  above  all  the 
cursed  mistakes  of  my  own  —  do  you  think  we 
have  not  had  these  ?  Do  you  think  we  don't 
know,  Hobart  ?  Do  you  think  we  haven't  paid,  to 
the  last  farthing  ?  Good  God  !"  said  Pelleas.  "And 
yet  we  are  not  beaten.  And  we  never  shall  be 
beaten,  dead  or  alive.  And  without  defiance.  With 
out  defiance." 

"No,"  said  I,  nodding  with  all  my  might,  "never 


3i8  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

beaten.  Except  for  a  little  at  a  time  when  it  hurts 
most.  But  never  beaten." 

"How,  though?"  Hobart  said  helplessly,  "I  say, 
how  do  you  do  it,  you  know  ?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  Pelleas  answered  gravely,  "I 
don't  know  much  about  myself.  One  doesn't  know. 
I  don't  know  where  I  stop  and  where  The  Rest  Of  It 
begins.  I  stop  somewhere,  I  dare  say  —  my  con 
sciousness  and  all  that  must  stop  somewhere.  But 
I've  never  found  the  last  of  me.  I've  always  felt  as 
if  I  were  working  along  with  a  few  sets  of  faculties 
when  I've  really  got  no  end  of  them.  And  I  don't 
know  where  these  stop.  Perhaps  they  don't  stop  at 
all.  And  so  when  I  get  a  knock-down  blow  I  fall 
all  of  a  heap  —  that  is,  as  much  of  me  as  I  know 
about  falls.  That  much  of  me  may  be  beaten.  But 
not  the  rest.  And  then  I  reach  up  a  hand  to  the  rest 
of  me  that  I  don't  know  about  and  I  say :  '  But  there's 
all  that  strength  left  that  I  don't  know  yet.  And  I 
don't  know  where  that  stops.  I've  never  found  out 
that  it  stops  at  all.  It  is  infinite  strength  and  I  can 
use  it  and  be  it  when  I  like.'  Beaten?"  said 
Pelleas;  "I  can  no  more  be  beaten  than  I  can  be 
smothered  in  the  open  air.  That  strength  is  ex- 
haustless,  like  the  air.  And  nothing  can  shut  it  out 
—  nothing." 

"  Not  even  your  own  mistakes  ?  Not  even  ir 
reparable  loss?"  said  Hobart. 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH  319 

"No,"  Pelleas  said,  "those  are  hardest.  But  not 
even  those." 

O,  I  could  not  have  loved  him  if  he  had  talked  to 
Hobart  about  resignation  and  rewards.  Yet  per 
haps  to  some  these  are  another  language  for  victory 
—  I  do  not  know. 

"Isn't  that  better,"  Pelleas  demanded,  "than 
taking  morphine-for-beetles  ?  Besides,  after  a  while 
you  learn  what  that  Other  Strength  is.  You  learn 
Who  it  is.  And  how  near  that  Someone  is.  But 
not  always  at  first  —  not  at  first." 

"  But  alone  .  .  .  one  is  so  deucedly  alone  .  .  ."  said 
Hobart  uncertainly. 

"Of  course,"  Pelleas  said,  "we  need  an  amazing 
lot  of  little  human  cheerings-up.  The  part  of  us 
with  which  we  are  acquainted  has  to  be  cheered  up 
somewhat.  Well,  and  isn't  it  —  isn't  it  ?  Look  at 
the  charming  things  that  are  always  happening! 
And  these  help  one  to  believe  right  and  left." 

I  hardly  heard  Nichola  come  in  with  the  tea. 
Hobart  absently  took  the  heavy  tray  from  her  and 
then,  while  she  arranged  it :  — 

"But  in  the  last  analysis,"  he  said,  "you've  got  to 
dig  your  way  out  of  things  alone,  haven't  you  ? 
Nobody  can  help  you." 

"No!"  Pelleas  cried,  "no,  you  have  not.  Not 
when  you  learn  Who  the  strength  is.  .  .  ." 

But  with  that  my  attention  wandered  from  Pelleas 


320  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

to  Nichola.  My  Royal  Sevres  always  looks  so  sur 
prised  at  Nichola's  brown  hands  upon  it  that  I 
have  long  expected  it  to  rebuke  her  for  familiarity. 
And  if  it  had  done  so  at  that  moment  I  could 
have  been  no  more  amazed  than  to  see  Nichola, 
still  bent  above  the  tray,  rest  her  hands  on  her 
knees  and  look  sidewise  and  inquiringly  at  Hobart 
Eddy. 

"What  nonsense,  anyway,"  Pelleas  was  saying, 
"every  one  can  help  every  one  else  no  end.  It's  not 
in  the  big  lonely  fights  that  we  can  help  much  — 
but  it's  in  the  little  human  cheerings-up.  When  we 
get  strength  the  next  thing  to  do  is  to  give  it.  Beetles 
or  not  —  it's  merely  a  point  of  moral  etiquette  to 
do  that!" 

"Ah,  but,"  Hobart  said,  smiling,  unconscious  of 
Nichola's  little  eyes  immovably  fixed  on  his  face, 
"but  when  they  reach  you  out  a  hand  people  usually 
pinch  by  instinct  instead  of  patting." 

At  that  Nichola's  little  quick-lidded  eyes  began 
to  wink,  brows  lifting.  And,  still  leaning  hands  on 
knees :  — 

"Yah  !"  she  said,  "none  of  what  you  say  is  so." 

Nichola  employs  the  indirect  method  about  as 
habitually  as  do  thunder  and  lightning.  And  in  this 
directness  of  hers  Hobart,  that  master  of  feint  and 
parry,  delights. 

"No,  Nichola  ?"  he  said,  smiling,  "no  ?" 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH     321 

She  got  stiffly  erect,  drawing  her  hands  up  her 
apron  to  her  thighs,  her  eyes  winking  so  fast  that  I 
marvel  she  could  see  at  all. 

"  But  the  whole  world  helps  along,"  she  said  shrilly, 
"or  else  we  should  tear  each  other's  eyes  out.  What 
do  I  do,  me  ?  I  do  not  put  fruit  peel  in  the  waste 
paper  to  worrit  the  ragman.  I  do  not  put  potato 
jackets  in  the  stove  to  worrit^  the  ashman.  I  do  not 
burn  the  bones  because  I  think  of  the  next  poor  dog. 
What  crumbs  are  left  I  lay  always,  always  on  the 
back  fence  for  the  birds.  I  kill  no  living  thing  but 
spiders  —  which  the  devil  made.  Our  Lady  knows 
I  do  very  little.  But  if  I  was  the  men  with  pock 
ets  on  I'd  find  a  way !  I'd  find  a  way,  me,"  said 
Nichola,  wagging  her  old  gray  head. 

"Pockets?"  Hobart  repeated,  puzzled. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,  yes!"  Nichola  cried. 
"Pockets  —  money  —  give!"  she  illustrated  in  pan 
tomime.  "What  can  I  do?  On  Thursday  nights  I 
take  what  sweets  are  in  this  house,  what  flowers  are 
on  all  the  plants,  and  I  carry  them  to  a  hospital  I 
know.  If  you  could  see  how  they  wait  for  me  on 
the  beds  !  What  can  I  do  ?  The  good  God  gave  me 
almost  no  pockets.  It  is  as  he  says,"  she  nodded  to 
Pelleas,  "Helping  is  why.  Yah!  None  of  what 
you  say  is  so.  Mem,  I  didn't  get  no  time  to  frost  the 
nutcakes." 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Nichola  •*-  it  doesn't  matter," 


322          LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

said  I,  holding  hard  to  the  arms  of  my  chair.  So 
that  was  where  she  went  on  her  Thursday  nights 
out  ...  so  that  was  where  the  occasional  blossoms 
on  my  plants  .  .  . 

"I  dare  say  you're  right,  you  know,  Nichola," 
Hobart  was  saying  gravely. 

She  was  almost  out  of  the  room  but  she  turned, 
rolling  her  hands  in  her  apron. 

"Since  Bible  days  I  was  right,"  she  said,  and  lean 
ing  forward,  nodding  her  head  at  every  word,  to  the 
utter  amazement  of  Pelleas  and  me :  " '  They  helped 
everybody  his  neighbour"'  she  quoted  freely,  "'and 
everybody  said  to  his  brother,  "You  be  of  good 
courage"  So  the  carpenter  encouraged  the  gold 
smith;  and  the  one  that  smoothed  with  the  hammer, 
him  that  smote  with  the  anvil*  Che!"  she  cried; 
"you  must  start  in  that  way  and  then  some  good  will 
come.  Do  I  not  know  ?  Some  good  will  come,  I 
say.  It  never,  never  fails." 

"Right,  Nichola,"  said  Hobart,  still  gravely,  "I 
haven't  a  doubt  of  what  you  say." 

"The  tea's  all  gettin'  cold,"  she  added  indiffer 
ently  as  she  went  between  the  curtains. 

"Nichola  and  I,"  Pelleas  said  in  distress,  "throw 
in  our  opinions  with  the  tea,  Hobart.  They  don't 
come  extra."  But  he  was  smiling  and  so  was  Hobart 
and  so  was  I,  with  my  inevitable  tear. 

The  next  instant  Nichola  was  at  the  portieres  again. 


THE   CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH     323 

"The  leddy  with  canaries  in  her  head  is  in  the 
lib'ry,"  she  said. 

"Canaries,  Nichola  ?"  I  echoed. 

"It's  the  truth!"  she  proclaimed,  "the  one  with 
canaries  singin'  in  her  head  till  it  shows  through," 
and  instantly  she  vanished. 

"Whom  can  she  mean  ?"  said  I  helplessly.  For  I 
have  no  acquaintance  who  has  a  bird  shop  though 
I  have  always  thought  that  bird-shop  proprietors 
must  be  charming  people. 

"It's  probably  somebody  with  parrots  on  her 
bonnet,"  Hobart  suggested  helpfully. 

I  hurried  across  the  hall,  noting  how  the  holly 
wreaths  showed  bright  in  the  mirrors  as  if  the  pleas- 
antest  things  were  about  to  happen.  For  in  dim 
light  a  mirror  does  not  merely  photograph.  It 
becomes  the  artist  and  suggests.  And  a  mirror 
wreathed  with  holly  on  the  day  before  Christmas 
is  no  more  like  an  ordinary  mirror  than  an  ordinary 
woman  is  like  a  bride. 

This  thought  was  in  my  mind  as  I  entered  the 
library  and  found  Eunice  Wells,  whose  "piety  and 
love  of  learning  and  incomparable  courage  in  bearing 
sorrow"  had  drawn  her  to  us  no  more  than  had  her 
helplessness  and  her  charm.  And  suddenly  I  under 
stood  that  there  are  some  women  who  seem  always 
like  brides,  moving  in  an  atmosphere  apart,  having 
something  of  joy  and  something  of  wistfulness. 


324  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

With  Eunice  the  joy  was  paramount  so  that  I  knew 
now  what  Nichola  had  meant  by  the  "canaries  sing 
ing  in  her  head  till  it  shows  through."  But  my 
heart  smote  me,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  that  joy  was  a 
flower  of  renunciation  instead  of  the  flower  of  youth. 
And  how  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  For  there  beside 
her  chair  lay  her  crutch. 

"Ah,"  I  cried,  "you  are  just  in  time,  my  dear,  for 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  nutcake  with  no  frosting.  And 
Merry  Christmas  —  Merry  Christmas  !" 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  her  as  she  looked  lying  back 
in  Pelleas'  big  chair,  all  the  beauty  of  her  face 
visible,  hidden  by  no  mask  of  mood;  and  in  her 
cheek  a  dimple  like  the  last  loving  touch  in  the 
drawing  of  her.  I  had  never  seen  an  invalid  with  a 
dimple  and  some  way  that  dimple  seemed  to  link  her 
with  life. 

"Besides,"  I  continued,  "I've  a  friend  whom  I 
want  you  to  meet  —  a  man,  a  youngish  man  — 
O,  a  Merry-Christmas-and-holly-man,  to  whom  I 
am  devoted.  Come  in  as  you  are  —  the  tea  ruins 
itself!" 

"Ah,  please,"  Eunice  begged  at  this,  "will 
you  forgive  me  if  I  sit  here  instead  while  you 
go  back  to  your  guest  ?  I  would  far  rather  be 
here  and  not  talk  to  —  to  strangers.  You  will  not 
mind?" 

"Do  quite  as  you  like,  dear  child,"  I  replied,  for 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH     325 

this  atrocious  ethics  is  the  only  proper  motto  for 
every  hostess. 

So,  her  wraps  having  been  put  aside,  I  made  her 
comfortable  by  the  fire  with  magazines,  and  a  Christ 
mas  rose  in  a  vase.  And  I  went  away  in  a  kind  of 
misery;  for  here  was  one  for  whom  with  all  my 
ardour  I  could  plan  nothing.  Her  little  crutch  would 
bar  the  way  to  any  future  of  brightness.  I  had  a 
swift  sense  of  the  mockery  that  Christmas  holly 
may  be. 

"I  amuse  myself  with  nutcakes,  me,"  said  Hobart 
Eddy  as  I  entered  the  drawing-room,  "and  where, 
pray,  is  the  Canary  Lady?" 

"She  is  a  very  fragile  Canary  Lady,"  I  answered 
sadly;  "she  is  lame,  you  know,  Hobart." 

"And  has  she  no  tea  ?"  he  demanded. 

"She  was  too  tired  to  join  us,"  I  explained;  "Pel- 
leas  will  take  her  cup  to  her  when  Nichola  brings 
the  hot  water." 

"Let  me  take  it  to  her,"  Hobart  suggested  when 
Nichola  came  in  with  the  hot-water  pot.  "I  won't 
stay,"  he  promised  as  I  hesitated,  "and  do  let  me  be 
useful.  I  can't  look  out  for  the  emotions  of  the  ash 
man  and  the  next  poor  dog,  but  I  want  to  help. 
Helping  is  why,"  he  smiled  at  Nichola. 

"You  must  forgive  Nichola  and  me  our  trespasses," 
Pelleas  murmured  uneasily. 

"  Forgive  them  ?     I'm   going  to   practice   them," 


3a6  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

Hobart  said,  rising;  "I'm  going  to  take  tea  and  a  nut- 
cake  to  the  Canary  Lady  in  the  library  and  cheer  her 
up,  carpenter  to  goldsmith." 

"Well,  then,"  said  I,  since  "Do  quite  as  you  like" 
is  the  proper  motto  for  every  hostess,  "  do  so.  But 
mind  that  you  do  not  stay  at  all.'9 

Nichola  brought  the  little  silver  card  tray  from 
the  hall,  and  about  the  plate  of  cakes  and  the  fra 
grant  cup  I  laid  a  spray  or  two  of  holly. 

"  Heigh  ho !  sing,  heigh  ho !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly:" 

Hobart  hummed  as  he  moved  away. 

"Fancy  rhyming  *  holly'  with  such  a  sentiment!" 
I  cried  after  him. 

Nichola  stood  nodding  her  head. 

"Che!"  she  said,  "I  said  a  word  to  him  about  the 
universe.  He  understood.  Some  good  will  come." 

She  went  away  muttering  and  Pelleas  and  I 
changed  eyes. 

"Pelleas,"  I  said  wonderingly,  "she  has  ideas !" 

We  had  already  surprised  her  in  an  emotion  or 
two;  but  of  course  ideas  are  another  matter. 

"More  and  more,"  Pelleas  said  meditatively,  "I 
suspect  people  of  ideas.  They  seem  sometimes  to 
have  ideas  when  they  have  no  minds.  I  dare  say 
they  are  acted  on  by  emanations." 

"But,  Pelleas,"  I  said,  "think  of  old  Nichola 
going  alone  to  that  hospital  on  her  Thursday  even- 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH    327 

ings.     Think  of  her  understanding  that  Helping  is 
why,  and  quoting  from  Isaiah  ! " 

"She  believes,"  Pelleas  meditated,  "that  our  sun 
is  the  largest  body  in  all  the  systems  and  that  our 
moon  is  next  in  size.  But  for  all  that  she  knows 
Helping  is  why.  That  the  carpenter  must  encourage 
the  goldsmith.  Yes,  Nichola  must  be  acted  on  by 


emanations." 


We  sat  silent  for  a  little.     Then, 

"Do  you  remember,"  I  asked  irrelevantly  —  but 
I  am  not  sure  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  irrele 
vance —  "how  you  insisted  that  every  one  in  the 
world  who  is  worth  anything  loves  some  one  as  much 
as  we  do,  'or  else  expects  to  do  so,  or  else  is  unhappy 
because  the  love  went  wrong?" 

"And  it's  true,"  said  Pelleas. 

"  For  all  but  Hobart,"  I  assented;  "it  was  true  for 
Miss  Willie  and  for  Nichola.  But  not  for  Hobart. 
And  I  have  been  wondering  how  any  one  who  is  not 
in  love  can  live  through  a  Christmas  without  falling 
in  love.  Christmas  seems  a  kind  of  loving-cup  of 
days." 

"We  should  sing  it,"  Pelleas  suggested, 

"Heigh  hoi  sing,  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
High  love  is  high  wisdom,  to  love  not  is  folly:" 

"That  is  the  way  it  really  is,"  said  I  comfortably; 
and  then  I  woke  to  the  other  realities.  "  Pelleas,"  I 
cried,  "where  is  Hobart?" 


328  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

Where  was  Hobart  Eddy  indeed  ?  It  was  quite  ten 
minutes  since  he  had  gone  with  the  Canary  Lady's 
cup,  and  I  had  charged  him  not  to  stay  at  all. 

"Really,"  I  said,  "we  must  go  after  him.  This 
is  too  bad  of  him,  too  —  I  can't  forgive  myself.  Let 
us  go  after  him,  Pelleas." 

I  took  the  little  hot-water  pot  for  an  excuse  and 
we  went  across  the  hall. 

"  Heigh  ho!  sing,  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
High  love  is  high  wisdom,  to  love  not  is  folly: 
Then,  heigh  ho !  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly." 

Pelleas  hummed  the  whole  way. 

The  library  door  was  ajar  and  we  entered  to 
gether.  Do  you  think  that  we  did  not  feel  the 
bewilderment  of  gods  and  men  when  we  saw,  in  the 
firelight,  Hobart  Eddy  with  Eunice  Wells  in  his  arms  ? 

I  hugged  my  little  hot-water  pot  and  could  find 
no  words  as  they  turned  and  saw  us.  But  ah, 
Hobart  Eddy's  face !  I  say  to  every  one  that  it  was 
transfigured,  like  the  face  of  one  who  has  found  the 
secret  of  the  days.  And  as  for  dear  Eunice  —  but 
then,  had  not  I,  who  am  a  most  discerning  old 
woman,  already  comprehended  that  Eunice  had 
looked  like  a  bride  from  the  beginning  ? 

"Aunt  Etarre!"  cried  Hobart  Eddy  like  a  boy, 
"I've  found  her  again.  I've  found  her!" 

I  clasped  Pelleas'  arm  while  I  tried  to  understand. 


THE   CARPENTER  AND   THE  GOLDSMITH     329 

We  who  had  despaired  of  contriving  for  Hobart  Eddy 
a  concrete  romance,  were  we  to  gather  that  this  was 
love  at  first  sight,  on  our  hearth-rug  ?  Even  we  have 
never  officiated  at  anything  so  spectacular  as  love  at 
first  sight.  But  my  mind  caught  and  clung  to  that 
"again." 

"' Again'?"  I  echoed  it. 

"I  have  loved  her  for  years,"  Hobart  said;  "she 
was  to  have  been  my  wife.  And  she  went  away, 
went  without  a  word,  so  that  I  couldn't  trace  her, 
and  why  do  you  think  she  did  that  ?  Because  the 
lameness  came  —  and  she  never  let  me  know." 

"It  wasn't  ...  I  thought  ...  O,  I  ought  not 
now  .  .  ."  Eunice  cried,  "but  not  because  I  don't 
care.  O,  never  that!" 

On  which,  "Hobart  Eddy!  Eunice!"  I  uttered. 
"Like  a  Young  Husband,  you  know  —  didn't  I  say 
so  ?  Haven't  I  always  said  so  ?  Pelleas,  you  see  the 
rule  does  apply  to  Hobart  too !  And  I  thought  of  a 
bride  at  once,  at  once  and  then  that  dimple  —  O," 
said  I,  "I  don't  know  in  the  least  what  I'm  talking 
about  —  at  least  you  don't  know.  But  I  don't  care, 
because  I'm  so  glad." 

"You  dear  fairy  godpeople,"  Hobart  Eddy  said 
in  the  midst  of  his  happiness,  "you  told  me  charming 
things  were  always  happening!" 

"To  help  us  to  believe,"  I  heard  Pelleas  saying  to 
himself. 


330  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

O,  I  wish  that  we  two  had  had  more  to  do  in  bring 
ing  it  all  about.  As  it  was  I  was  very  thankful  that 
it  proved  not  to  be  love  at  first  sight,  for  I  would  see 
one's  love,  like  one's  bonnets,  chosen  with  a  fine 
deliberation.  But  about  this  affair  there  had  been 
the  most  sorrowful  deliberation.  Pelleas  and  I  sat 
on  the  sofa  before  them  and  they  told  us  a  fragment 
here  and  a  fragment  there  and  joy  over  all.  Hobart 
Eddy  had  met  her  years  before  in  her  little  New  Eng 
land  town.  His  wooing  had  been  brief  and,  because 
of  an  aunt  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  an  ogre,  nearly 
secret.  Week  by  week  through  one  Spring  he  had 
gone  to  see  Eunice,  and  then  had  come  her  ugly  fall 
from  her  saddle  of  which  until  now  he  had  never 
known;  for  when  she  understood  that  the  lameness 
was  likely  to  be  incurable  she  and  that  disgustingly 
willing  aunt  had  simply  disappeared  and  left  no  trace 
at  all. 

"What  else  could  I  do?"  Eunice  appealed  to  us 
simply;  "I  loved  him  .  .  .  how  could  I  let  him  sac 
rifice  his  life  to  me  ...  a  cripple  ?  Aunt  Lydia 
said  he  would  forget.  I  had  no  home;  we  were 
staying  here  and  there  for  Aunt  Lydia's  health; 
and  to  leave  no  trace  was  easy.  What  else  could 
I  do?" 

"O,"  Hobart  Eddy  said  only,  "Eunice,  Eunice!" 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  which  made  Pelleas 
and  me  look  at  him  in  the  happiest  wonder.  And  I 


THE   CARPENTER   AND   THE   GOLDSMITH     331 

remembered  that  other  note  in  his  voice  that  day 
in  the  orchard  with  Enid's  baby.  In  the  statue  story 
Pelleas  and  I  have  never  believed  that  Galatea  came 
to  life  alone.  For  we  think  that  the  Pygmalions  have 
an  awakening  not  less  sacred. 

I  do  not  in  the  least  remember  how  Pelleas  and  I 
got  out  of  the  room.  I  do  remember  that  we  two 
stood  in  the  middle  of  our  drawing-room  looking  at 
each  other,  speechless  with  the  marvel  of  what  had 
come.  No  wonder  that  the  blindfold  Hope  over 
the  mantel  had  wreathed  herself  in  holly ! 

It  was  late  when  Hobart  hurried  home  to  dress 
and  it  was  later  still  when  we  four  had  dinner  which 
I  do  not  recall  that  any  of  us  ate.  And  then  Pelleas 
and  I  left  those  two  in  the  library  in  the  presence  of 
their  forgotten  coffee  while  we  flew  distractedly  about 
giving  last  touches  for  our  party,  an  event  which  had 
all  but  slipped  our  minds. 

"Pelleas/'  said  I,  lighting  candles,  "think  how  we 
planned  that  Hobart's  wife  must  be  a  woman  of 
the  world!" 

"But  Eunice,"  Pelleas  said,  "is  a  woman  of  many 
worlds." 

Our  shabby  drawing-room  was  ablaze  with  red 
candles;  and  what  with  holly  red  on  the  walls  and 
the  snow  banking  the  casements  and  bells  jingling 
up  and  down  the  avenue,  the  sense  of  Christmas 
was  very  real.  For  me,  Christmas  seems  always  to 


332  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS  AND   ETARRE 

be  just  past  or  else  on  the  way;  and  that  sixth  sense 
of  Christmas  being  actually  Now  is  thrice  desirable. 

On  the  stroke  of  nine  we  two,  waiting  before  the 
fire,  heard  Nichola  on  the  basement  stairs;  and  by 
the  way  in  which  she  mounted,  with  labor  and 
caution,  I  knew  that  she  was  bringing  the  punch. 
We  had  wished  to  have  it  ready  —  that  harmless 
steaming  punch  compounded  from  my  mother's 
recipe  —  when  our  guests  arrived,  so  that  they  should 
first  of  all  hear  the  news  and  drin^c  health  to  Eunice 
and  Hobart. 

Nichola  was  splendid  in  her  scarlet  merino  and 
that  vast  cap  effect  managed  by  a  starched  pillow 
case  and  a  bit  of  string,  and  over  her  arm  hung 
a  huge  holly  wreath  for  the  bowl's  brim.  When  she 
had  deposited  her  fragrant  burden  and  laid  the  wreath 
in  place  she  stood  erect  and  looked  at  us  solemnly 
for  a  moment,  and  then  her  face  wrinkled  in  all  direc 
tions  and  was  lighted  with  her  rare,  puckered  smile. 

"Mer  —  ry  Christmas  !"  she  said. 

"Merry  Christmas,  Nichola!"  we  cried,  and  I 
think  that  in  all  her  years  with  us  we  had  never  before 
heard  the  words  upon  her  lips. 

"Who  goes  ridin'  behind  the  sleigh-bells  to-night  ?" 
she  asked  then  abruptly. 

"Who  rides  ?"  I  repeated,  puzzled. 

"Yes,"  Nichola  said;  "this  is  a  night  when  all 
folk  stay  home.  The  whole  world  sits  by  the  fire  on 


THE   CARPENTER  AND   THE  GOLDSMITH     333 

Christmas  night.  An'  yet  the  sleigh-bells  ring  like 
mad.  It  is  not  holy/' 

Pelleas  and  I  had  never  thought  of  that.  But 
there  may  be  something  in  it.  Who  indeed,  when  all 
the  world  keeps  hearth-holiday,  who  is  it  that  rides 
abroad  on  Christmas  night  behind  the  bells  ? 

"Good  spirits,  perhaps,  Nichola,"  Pelleas  said, 
smiling. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  Nichola  declared  gravely; 
"that  is  not  holy  either  —  to  doubt." 

"No,"  we  said,  "to  doubt  good  spirits  is  never 
holy." 

On  this  we  heard  the  summons  at  our  door,  and 
Nichola  went  off  to  answer  it.  And  in  came  all  our 
guests  at  once  from  dinner  at  the  Chartres';  and  at 
Nichola's  bidding  they  hastened  straight  to  the 
drawing-room  and  cried  their  Christmas  greetings 
to  Pelleas  and  me,  who  stood  serving  the  steaming 
punch  before  the  fireplace. 

They  were  all  there:  Madame  Sally  in  black 
velvet  and  a  diamond  or  two ;  Polly  Cleatam  with  — 
as  I  live  !  —  a  new  dimple;  and  Wilfred  and  Horace 
acting  as  if  Christmas  were  the  only  day  on  the 
business  calendar;  Miss  Willie  Lillieblade,  taking 
a  Christmas  capsule  from  the  head  of  her  white 
staff;  Avis  and  Lawrence,  always  dangerously  likely 
to  be  found  conferring  in  quiet  corners;  and  Enid 
and  David  and  the  baby  —  we  had  insisted  on  the 


334  LOVES  OF   PELLEAS   AND  ETARRE 

baby  and  he  had  arrived,  in  a  cocoon  of  Valen 
ciennes.  And  when  the  glasses  had  been  handed 
round,  Pelleas  slipped  across  the  hall  to  the  library 
and  reappeared  among  us  with  Eunice  and  Hobart. 

"Dear,  dear  friends,"  Pelleas  said,  "dear 
friends  .  .  ." 

But  one  look  in  the  faces  of  those  three  was 
enough.  And  I,  an  incarnate  confirmation,  stood  on 
the  hearth-rug  nodding  with  all  my  might. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  merry  we  were  in  that  mo 
ment  or  how  in  love  with  life.  I  cannot  recall  what 
tender,  broken  words  were  said  or  what  toasts  were 
drunk.  But  I  remember  well  enough  the  faces  of 
Eunice  and  Hobart  Eddy;  and  I  think  that  the  holly- 
wreathed  mirrors  must  have  found  it  difficult  to 
play  the  artist  and  suggest,  because  that  which  they 
had  merely  to  reflect  was  so  much  more  luminous. 

In  the  midst  of  all,  Nichola,  bringing  more  glasses, 
spoke  at  my  elbow. 

"Mem,"  she  asked,  "air  them  two  goin*  to  get 
marrit?" 

"  Yes,  Nichola,"  I  said,  "  yes,  they  are.    They  are ! " 

Nichola  stood  looking  at  me  and  winking  fast,  as 
if  the  air  were  filled  with  dust.  And  then  came  that 
curious  change  in  her  face  which  I  had  seen  there 
before :  a  look  as  if  her  features  were  momentarily 
out  of  drawing,  by  way  of  bodying  forth  some  un 
wonted  thought. 


THE  CARPENTER  AND  THE  GOLDSMITH     335 

"I  made  that  match,"  Nichola  acknowledged 
briefly. 

"Nichola!"  I  said  in  bewilderment. 

"It's  so,"  she  maintained  solemnly;  "didn't  I  say 
a  word  to  him  this  afternoon  —  a  word  about  the 
universe  ?  He  begun  to  understand  how  to  act. 
For  the  love  of  heaven,  did  I  not  say  some  good  would 
come?" 

"You  did  say  so,  Nichola,"  I  answered,  "and  cer 
tainly  the  good  has  come." 

"Che!"  said  Nichola,  nodding  her  head,  "I  am 
sure  about  all  things,  me." 

I  turned  to  Pelleas,  longing  to  tell  him  that  we 
were  rinding  the  end  of  one  rainbow  after  another. 
And  Pelleas  was  at  that  moment  lifting  his  glass. 

"Here's  to  Christmas,"  he  cried  as  he  met  my 
eyes,  "the  loving  cup  of  days!" 


XVII 

CHRISTMAS    ROSES 

WHEN  our  guests  were  gone  Pelleas  and  I  sat  for 
some  while  beside  the  drawing-room  fire.  They 
had  brought  us  a  box  of  Christmas  roses  and  these 
made  sweet  the  room  as  if  with  a  secret  Spring  —  a 
Little  Spring,  such  as  comes  to  us  all,  now  and  then, 
through  the  year.  And  it  was  the  enchanted  hour, 
when  Christmas  eve  has  just  passed  and  no  one  is 
yet  awakened  by  the  universal  note  of  Get-Your- 
Stocking-Before-Breakfast. 

"For  that  matter,"  Pelleas  said,  "every  day  is  a 
loving  cup,  only  some  of  us  see  only  one  of  its  handles : 
Our  own." 

And  after  a  time :  — 

"Isn't  there  a  legend,"  he  wanted  to  know,  "or 
if  there  isn't  one  there  ought  to  be  one,  that  the  first 
flowers  were  Christmas  roses  and  that  you  can  detect 
their  odour  in  all  other  flowers  ?  I'm  not  sure," 
he  warmed  to  the  subject,  "but  that  they  say  if  you 
look  steadily,  with  clear  eyes,  you  can  see  all  about 
every  flower  many  little  lines,  in  the  shape  of  a  Christ 
mas  rose !" 

Of  course  nothing  beautiful  is  difficult  to  believe. 

336 


CHRISTMAS   ROSES  337 

Even  in  the  windows  of  the  great  florists,  where  the 
dear  flowers  pose  as  if  for  their  portraits,  we  think 
that  one  looking  closely  through  the  glass  may  see 
in  their  faces  the  spirit  of  the  Christmas  roses.  And 
when  the  flowers  are  made  a  gift  of  love  the  spirit 
is  set  free.  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  the  gracious  little 
spirit  is  in  us  all,  waiting  for  its  liberty  in  our  best  gifts. 

And  at  thought  of  gifts  I  said,  on  Christmas  eve 
of  all  times,  what  had  been  for  some  time  in  my 
heart :  — 

"  Pelleas,  we  ought  —  we  really  ought,  you  know, 
to  make  a  new  will." 

The  word  casts  a  veritable  shadow  on  the  page  as 
I  write  it.  Pelleas,  conscious  of  the  same  shadow, 
moved  and  frowned. 

"But  why,  Etarre?"  he  asked;  "I  had  an  uncle 
who  lived  to  be  ninety." 

"So  will  you,"  I  said,  "and  still  —" 

"He  began  translating  Theocritus  at  ninety," 
Pelleas  continued  convincingly. 

"  I'll  venture  he  had  made  his  will  by  then,  though," 
said  I. 

"Is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  make  mine?" 
Pelleas  demanded.  "  I  never  did  the  things  my  family 
did." 

"Like  living  until  ninety  ?"  I  murmured. 

O,  I  could  not  love  Pelleas  if  he  was  never  un 
reasonable.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  privilege  of 


338  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

unreason  is  one  of  the  gifts  of  marriage ;  and  when 
I  hear  The  Married  chiding  each  other  for  the  exer 
cise  of  this  gift  I  long  to  cry :  Is  it  not  tiresome  enough 
in  all  conscience  to  have  to  keep  up  a  brave  show  of 
reason  for  one's  friends,  without  wearing  a  uniform 
of  logic  in  private  ?  Laugh  at  each  other's  unreason 
for  your  pastime,  and  Heaven  bless  you! 

Pelleas  can  do  more  than  this:  He  can  laugh  at 
his  own  unreason.  And  when  he  had  done  soi — 

"Ah,  well,  I  know  we  ought,"  he  admitted,  "but 
I  do  so  object  to  the  literary  style  of  wills." 

It  has  long  been  a  sadness  of  ours  that  the  law 
makes  all  the  poor  dead  talk  alike  in  this  last  office 
of  the  human  pleasure,  so  that  cartman  and  poten 
tate  and  philosopher  give  away  their  chattels  to  the 
same  dreary  choice  of  forms.  No  matter  with  what 
charming  propriety  they  have  in  life  written  little 
letters  to  accompany  gifts,  most  sensitively  shading 
the  temper  of  bestowal,  yet  in  the  majesty  of  their 
passing  they  are  forced  into  a  very  strait-jacket 
of  phrasing  so  that  verily,  to  bequeath  a  thing  to 
one's  friend  is  well-nigh  to  throw  it  at  him.  Yes,  one 
of  the  drawbacks  to  dying  is  the  diction  of  wills. 

Pelleas  meditated  for  a  moment  and  then  laughed 
out. 

"Telegrams,"  said  he,  "are  such  a  social  conven 
ience  in  life  that  I  don't  see  why  they  don't  extend 
their  function.  Then  all  we  should  need  would  be 


CHRISTMAS   ROSES  339 

two  witnesses,  ready  for  anything,  and  some  yellow 
telegraph  blanks,  and  a  lawyer  to  file  the  messages 
whenever  we  should  die,  telling  all  our  friends  what 
we  wish  them  to  have." 

At  once  we  fell  planning  the  telegrams,  quite  as 
if  the  Eye  of  the  Law  knew  what  it  is  to  wrinkle  at 
the  corners. 

As, 

MRS.  LAWRENCE  KNIGHT, 
Little  Rosemont, 

L.I. 

I  wish  you  to  have  my  mother's  pearls  and  her  mahogany 
and  my  Samarcand  rug  and  my  Langhorne  Plutarch  and  a  kiss. 

AUNT  ETARRE. 
and 

MR.  ERIC  CHARTRES 
To  His  Club, 

Come  to  the  house  and  get  the  Royal  Sevres  tea-service  on  which 
you  and  Lisa  had  your  first  tea  together  and  a  check  made  out  to 
you  in  my  check  book  in  the  library  table  drawer. 

UNCLE  PELLEAS. 

And  so  on,  with  the  witnesses'  names  properly  in 
the  corners. 

"Perfect,"  said  I  with  enthusiasm.  "O,  Pelleas, 
let  us  get  a  bill  through  to  this  effect." 

"  But  we  may  live  to  be  only  ninety,  you  know," 
he  reminded  me. 

We  went  to  the  window,  presently,  and  threw  it 
open  on  the  chance  of  hearing  the  bird  of  dawning 


340  LOVES   OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 

singing  all  night  long  in  the  Park,  which  is  of  course, 
in  New  York,  where  it  sings  on  Star  of  Bethlehem 
night.  We  did  not  hear  it,  but  it  is  something  to 
have  been  certain  that  it  was  there.  And  as  we 
closed  the  casement, 

"After  all,"  Pelleas  said  seriously,  "the  Tele 
graph  Will  Bill  would  have  to  do  only  with  property. 
And  a  will  ought  to  be  concerned  with  soberer  mat 


ters." 


So  it  ought,  in  spite  of  its  dress  of  diction,  rather 
like  the  motley. 

"A  man,"  Pelleas  continued,  "ought  to  have  some 
thing  more  important  to  will  away  than  his  house  and 
his  watch  and  his  best  bed.  A  man's  poor  soul,  now 
—  unless  he  is  an  artist,  which  he  probably  is  not — • 
has  no  chance  verbally  to  leave  anybody  anything." 

"It  makes  its  will  every  day,"  said  I. 

"Even  so,"  Pelleas  contended,  "it  ought  to  die 
rich  if  it's  anything  of  a  soul." 

And  that  is  true  enough. 

"Suppose,"  Pelleas  suggested,  "the  telegrams 
were  to  contain  something  like  this:  'And  from  my 
spirit  to  yours  I  bequeath  the  hard-won  knowledge 
that  you  must  be  true  from  the  beginning.  But  if  by 
any  chance  you  have  not  been  so,  then  you  must  be 
true  from  the  moment  that  you  know.'  Why  not  ?" 

Why  not,  indeed  ? 

"I   think  that  would   be  mine  to  give,"   Pelleas 


CHRISTMAS   ROSES  341 

said  reflectively;  "  and  what  would  yours  be,  Etarre  ?" 
he  asked. 

At  that  I  fell  in  sudden  abashment.  What  could 
I  say  ?  What  would  I  will  my  poor  life  to  mean  to 
any  one  who  chances  to  know  that  I  have  lived  at 
all  ?  O,  I  dare  say  I  should  have  been  able  to  for 
mulate  many  a  fine-sounding  phrase  about  the  pas 
sion  for  perfection,  but  confronted  with  the  necessity 
I  could  think  of  nothing  save  a  few  straggling  truths. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I  uncertainly;  "I  am  sure 
of  so  little,  save  self-giving.  I  should  like  to  bequeath 
some  knowledge  of  the  magic  of  self-giving.  Now 
Nichola,"  I  hazarded,  to  evade  the  matter,  "would 
no  doubt  say:  'And  from  my  soul  to  your  soul  this 
word  about  the  universe:  Helping  Is  why." 

"But  you  —  you,  Etarre,"  Pelleas  persisted;  "what 
would  the  real  You  will  to  others,  in  this  mortuary 
telegram  ?" 

And  as  I  looked  at  him  I  knew. 

"O,  Pelleas,"  I  said,  "I  think  I  would  telegraph 
to  every  one:  'From  my  spirit  to  your  spirit,  some 
understanding  of  the  preciousness  of  love.  And  the 
need  to  keep  it  true/  " 

I  shall  always  remember  with  what  gladness  he 
turned  to  me.  I  wished  that  his  smile  and  our 
bright  hearth  and  our  Christmas  roses  might  bless 
every  one, 

"I  wanted  you  to  say  that,"  said  Pelleas. 


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accuracy.  Compressed  into  it  are  all  the  sparkle,  all  the  gayety,  all 
the  wild,  whirling  life  of  the  glad,  mad,  bad,  and  most  delightful  city 
of  the  Golden  Gate. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,         -         -         New  York 


FAMOUS   COPYRIGHT    BOOKS 
IN  POPULAR  PRICED  EDITIONS 

Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra 
tions  of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

THE  SHUTTLE,  By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

With  inlay  cover  in  colors  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 
This  great  international  romance  relates  the  story  of  an  Ameri 
can  girl  who,  in  rescuing  her  sister  from  the  ruins  of  her  marriage 
to  an  Englishman  of  title,  displays  splendid  qualities  of  courage, 
tact  and  restraint.  As  a  study  of  American  womanhood  of  modern 
times,  the  character  of  Bettina  Vanderpoel  stands  alone  in  litera 
ture.  As  a  love  story,  the  account  of  her  experience  is  magnificent. 
The  masterly  handling,  the  glowing  style  of  the  book,  give  it  a 
literary  rank  to  which  very  few  modern  novels  have  attained. 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  MARCHIONESS, 

By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

Illustrated  with  half  tone"engravings  by  Charles  D.  Williams. 

With  initial  letters,  tail-pieces,  decorative  borders.    Beautifully 

printed,  and  daintily  bound,  and  boxed. 

A  delightful  novel  in  the  author's  most  charming  vein.  The 
scene  is  laid  in  an  English  country  house,  where  an  amiable  Eng 
lish  nobleman  is  the  centre'of  matrimonial  interest  on  the  part  of 
both  the  English  and  Americans  present. 

i-<*  Graceful,  sprightly,  almost  delicious  in  its  dialogue  and  action. 
It  is  a  book  about  which  one  is  tempted  to  write  ecstatically. 

THE  METHODS  OF  LADY  WALDERHURST, 

By  Francis  Hodgson  Burnett 

A  Companion  Volume  to  "  The  Making  of  •  Marchioness." 

With  illustrations  by  Charles  D.  Williams,  and  with  initial 
letters,  tail-pieces,  and  borders,  by  A.  K.  Womrath.  Beautifully 
printed  and  daintily  bound,  and  ooxed. 

"The  Methods  of  Lady  Walderhurst"  is  a  delightful  story 
which  combines  the  sweetness  of  "  The  Making  of  a  Marchioness, 
with  the  dramatic  qualities  of  "  A  Lady  of  Quality."    Lady  Wal 
derhurst  is  one  of  the  most  charming  characters  in  modern  fiction. 

VAYENNE,  By  Percy  Brebner 

With  illustrations  by  E.  Fuhr. 

This  romance  like  the  author's  The  Princess  Maritza  is  charged 
to  the  brim  with  adventure.  Sword  play,  bloodshed,  justice  grown 
the  multitude,  sacrifice,  and  romance,  mingle  in  dramatic  episodes 
that  are  born,  flourish,  and  pass  away  on  every  page. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,     -     -      NEW  YORK 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

- 


MM* 


JUL  '  8  1! 

24Mar'53Rl' 

8SAR1319530J 
NOV23199 

NOV  2  6  1990 


LD  2 1-5 OIK- 8, -32 


u.c. 


YB  68819 

BERKELEYUIBRARIES 


248988 


